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Cheryl Hughes: Trapped

Earlier this week, I came to a personal understanding of why many animals that get caught in traps chew their appendages off instead of enduring the pain.  I also gained a new appreciation for the way my husband, Garey, has gone out of his way to teach our granddaughter, Sabria, about tools.

                Sabria has always tagged along after her Papa in most of his endeavors, from picking garden vegetables to working on his backhoe to putting together things, like her swing set.  One of my fondest memories of her is the day she walked down to Garey’s shop, wearing a tee shirt, a diaper, and small white patent leather shoes with a flower on the toe.  She carried a screwdriver in one hand and a wrench in the other.  She was ready to help her Papa work. I didn’t fully appreciate Sabria’s interest in tools until last week.

                It was one of those days when it was bitterly cold outside.  I was in the backyard trying to collapse one of those wire dog kennels.  Sabria was standing at the back door watching me.  She was upset because I wouldn’t let her be out in the cold where I was working.  Collapsing the dog kennel was something I’ve done several times, it’s not particularly complicated.  I’m not sure how I did it, but somehow, I got the pinky finger on the left hand wedged between two very close wires that connected the top and one side of the kennel.

                At this point, I need to remind you that I have lived on a farm for most of my life, which means I’ve had all sorts of cuts, scrapes and falls; however, I have never experienced the kind of blinding pain that accompanied getting my pinky caught in that dog kennel.  A few minutes in, and I too was seriously considering gnawing myself free.  When I screamed out in pain, Sabria opened the door and yelled, “What’s wrong with you, Gee?”

                I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t get my finger loose, I couldn’t move the dog kennel without causing even more pain, and I couldn’t get the wires that were pinching the tip of my finger to the bone to separate from one another.  I finally gathered the presence of mind to yell “Screwdriver!” and “Hurry!”

                We keep small tools in a standing tool box in the closet in the utility room, where Sabria was watching me from the door.  She knew which drawer held the screwdrivers, so she found one, opened the door then made her way down the steps and across the gravel driveway to where I was trapped.  She was barefoot, which meant her trek to where the kennel had me in its grip was a slow go.  When she handed the screwdriver to me, I was able to immediately pry the wires apart and free my now-flattened pinky.  The little digit was mashed nearly to the bone and the throbbing continued. 

                I sat down on the back step and cried like a little girl for several minutes, while Sabria patted my back and comforted me with, “It’s alright, Gee, don’t cry.”  I praised her for coming to my rescue, to which she responded, “The rocks hurt my feet.”

                The next morning, I cautiously examined my finger, expecting it to be still flat, as well as badly bruised.  To my surprise, the pinky had plumped back out, had no discoloration whatsoever, and wasn’t even sore.  I was amazed.  You know, it would be awesome if the rest of my body could rebound from mishaps that quickly, but then again, I’m really grateful that I’ve never found another spot on my body that is made up of the obviously gazillion nerve endings housed in the pinky on my left hand.

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