So, I hurt my finger.  Badly, it turns out, in an effective and simple way; I closed it in the heavy metal hinge of your every day garage door.

At the Car Wash, natch.

It broke the bone at the tip.  I thought it had.  It started bleeding – profusely – immediately.  I was amazed at the body’s propensity for actualization.  Showing the next person coming in to the stall I had just vacated, I hopped in and drove myself – finger in my mouth, sucking up the blood, screaming around it occasionally as the euphoric aftertaste of the adrenaline wore off, the mile or two to the hospital.

There, I found myself.  I waited.  I got ibuprofen from the nurse when they finally put me through triage.  It was throbbing, I was nervous; the blood pressure showed, and they hastened their pace a little.  As the current doctor’s shift ended, I was hustled through X-Ray.  The most pleasant technician, who wasn’t supposed to, but gave me a nod to say, Yes dear, you really did break it like you thought.

The doctor said – well, we can’t do anything.  A splint would do nothing.  The cuts aren’t deep enough to need treatment, beyond a bandage as you would normally use.  I got some gauze taped around the end, with a plastic sheath to hold it all.

All in all, somewhat surreal.   I’ll (hopefully) gain all of the feeling back.  The fingernail I feel shall be pushed aside by the clotting that even now manifests beneath it.  The bone shall join its brethren further up my arm, at the elbow.  Perhaps this is simply bodily mutiny – they’ve established a supply chain, and eventually shall cut off the rest of my body – literally – from its supply, and thus win the war.

For now, pity and depression.