In high school, my sisters and I traveled to Connecticut and to Michigan with our Youth Group to help build houses for Habitat for Humanity. Even in the heat of those summers of '95 and '96, we were required to wear jeans and construction boots while on the work site. We each sported a pair of those big, yellow Timberlands while we worked. They were bulky and not so cute but they were necessary, we were told.
It wasn't until Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 that I truly appreciated why we'd been required to wear those inflexible, thick-soled shoes on the work site. I learned my lesson... the hard (as nails) way.
I can remember the exact date because it was the day before our nephew, Tate, was to be baptized in Houston. Rob planned to join some friends at a beer tasting in Austin Saturday around noon, so we decided we'd leave for H'town after the event. I would drop Rob off at the bar, come home and do some packing and cleaning up. Then, I'd pick him back up and we'd be on our way to Houston. One of my first chores was to throw the vegetable scraps into the compost bin. At this point, the back portion of our house had already been torn down and our back steps were made of stacked cinder blocks. I carefully carried the container down the 'stairs' and made my way a few steps through the yard toward the compost pile.
If only I'd been wearing those old Timberlands! But, alas, my flimsy flip flops did not protect my foot from the debris that, leftover from demolition, littered our yard. While the level of pain I felt at the moment was foreign to me, I didn't even need to look down to know what had happened. I've never had stitches nor broken a bone, so I think it' safe to say that I'd never experienced something quite like the feeling of that dirty old nail piercing my foot.
I hopped over to an old cement stoop (pictured above) and sat down to take a look at the damage. Though it had not gone all the way through, the nail was deeply lodged into the ball of my foot, just below my little toe, securing my shoe to me. Shit, shit, shit! I thought. I knew I must yank it out. I bit my lip and tugged. It was as if the flesh of my foot was suctioned to the metal. I tried again and could feel the meat pull and stretch, gripping the ragged metal. Oh, no. Oh, no. I can't do this! I could hear the next door neighbor working in his yard. Was I going to have to ask him to pull this thing out?
I crawled back inside the house, perched on the side of the tub, and called Rob. He could barely hear me over the noise of the bar. "I need you to go to where you can hear me right now!" I said rather dramatically. When the noise died down I frantically shouted, "I stepped on a nail and I can't get it out of my foot!!"
Rob says that the reason I've, in my 33 years, been able to avoid serious injury, is because I don't take the types of risks that would put me in any position to get hurt. It's true, I don't go mountain biking or cliff jumping or do any crazy hikes. I generally step with care and, so, am taken entirely by surprise by mishaps. It's only fair for me to admit that I don't always handle such startling moments with grace when they do occur. Rob, however, being the man who drills his own finger nail and stitches his own wounds with fishing line, honestly enjoys these types of injuries. When he heard what had happened all he could do was let out a kind of stifled chortle. A kind of 'oh, oh, oh!' or maybe a 'ho, ho, ho!" that sounded like he was probably rubbing his palms together, wishing he were there to yank it himself.
"You're gonna have to yank it out!" he half laughed.
"I can't get it out!"
"Yes you can. Just put the phone down for a second and yank. Like a bandaid. Nice and quick."
"Okay..."
With my foot propped up on my opposite knee, I grabbed hold of the head of the nail, closed my eyes, and tore the foreign object out with a jerk.
"I did it! I did it!"
"Good job!"
"Do I need to go to the hospital?"
"Nah, just clean it off best you can and it'll heal."
Now, puncture wounds (which, obviously, is what this was) close up pretty quickly. I did what I could to clean the cut with alcohol, but by the time the nail was out, the hole looked more like a cute little freckle than the bacteria-ridden, internal gash that it was. Now, anyone who has watched a bit of Grey's Anatomy (thank goodness for our internet hook up) knows that yanking an object from a puncture wound can cause internal bleeding, infection, or other hidden damage. Maybe I should go to the hospital, I thought, remembering the dead baby bike race episode of Grey's when a bike spoke punctures Viper's organs.
Or the one when two people are stuck together by a pole that has gone through both of their abdomens. The only thing holding their organs in place is the metal tube. Extraction=eminent death.
Of course I realize that my vital organs are not located in the sole of my foot, but even if my injury wasn't fatal, might I have been facing irreversible damage or even amputation? I did my best to push such images out of my mind and got ready for our drive to Houston. By the time I picked Rob up, my foot was pink, throbby, and swollen. Rob was a bit tipsy but did his best to reassure me that this was a minor mishap and I was overreacting. I knew I couldn't admit to my visions of my one-legged life or memories of the show that inspires nothing but eye rolling and guffawing from him. Plus, our sister-in-law is a doctor and we'd be seeing her the next morning, he reasoned.We could ask for her advice.
By the baptism Sunday morning, I had to wear a pair of shoes that would accommodate for the new size of my foot.
Our sister-in-law, Nikki, suggested that, yes, I should go get it checked out. But on a Sunday my doctor's office would be closed. Urgent Care would cost a pretty penny.
"Can't you just wait until tomorrow?" Rob asked.
Well, I wasn't going to miss school for a puffy foot. I got to the doctor's office around 3:30 Monday afternoon. When I told him the story, his eyes widened.
"You stepped on a nail and then you went to Houston!?" He was astounded. I immediately blamed the advice of my husband, my desire to believe that I'd been over-reacting. He stung me with a comment about "common sense" and prescribed two antibiotics for what appeared to be an infection. Thank god my patient file had revealed that the tetanus shot I'd gotten for our honeymoon in India was still current and I could claim I'd remembered that fact. I scheduled the follow-up that he insisted upon and left the office with my head hanging low but my heart soaring that the subject of amputation hadn't come up.
I share this memory for two reasons. First, I learned a lesson. Well, maybe a few. Timberlands work. Listen to your gut, not your husband. When living on a construction site, step with care.
Second, the memory and the scar tissue (that I can still feel) remind me of the dangerous job that the contractors on our site, building our home every day, are doing. In my next post, I'll share some of the sub-contractors' words of wisdom as they are written (upon my request) on our plywood floors.
It wasn't until Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 that I truly appreciated why we'd been required to wear those inflexible, thick-soled shoes on the work site. I learned my lesson... the hard (as nails) way.
I can remember the exact date because it was the day before our nephew, Tate, was to be baptized in Houston. Rob planned to join some friends at a beer tasting in Austin Saturday around noon, so we decided we'd leave for H'town after the event. I would drop Rob off at the bar, come home and do some packing and cleaning up. Then, I'd pick him back up and we'd be on our way to Houston. One of my first chores was to throw the vegetable scraps into the compost bin. At this point, the back portion of our house had already been torn down and our back steps were made of stacked cinder blocks. I carefully carried the container down the 'stairs' and made my way a few steps through the yard toward the compost pile.
 |
| Can you make out those cinder block steps? |
I hopped over to an old cement stoop (pictured above) and sat down to take a look at the damage. Though it had not gone all the way through, the nail was deeply lodged into the ball of my foot, just below my little toe, securing my shoe to me. Shit, shit, shit! I thought. I knew I must yank it out. I bit my lip and tugged. It was as if the flesh of my foot was suctioned to the metal. I tried again and could feel the meat pull and stretch, gripping the ragged metal. Oh, no. Oh, no. I can't do this! I could hear the next door neighbor working in his yard. Was I going to have to ask him to pull this thing out?
I crawled back inside the house, perched on the side of the tub, and called Rob. He could barely hear me over the noise of the bar. "I need you to go to where you can hear me right now!" I said rather dramatically. When the noise died down I frantically shouted, "I stepped on a nail and I can't get it out of my foot!!"
Rob says that the reason I've, in my 33 years, been able to avoid serious injury, is because I don't take the types of risks that would put me in any position to get hurt. It's true, I don't go mountain biking or cliff jumping or do any crazy hikes. I generally step with care and, so, am taken entirely by surprise by mishaps. It's only fair for me to admit that I don't always handle such startling moments with grace when they do occur. Rob, however, being the man who drills his own finger nail and stitches his own wounds with fishing line, honestly enjoys these types of injuries. When he heard what had happened all he could do was let out a kind of stifled chortle. A kind of 'oh, oh, oh!' or maybe a 'ho, ho, ho!" that sounded like he was probably rubbing his palms together, wishing he were there to yank it himself.
"You're gonna have to yank it out!" he half laughed.
"I can't get it out!"
"Yes you can. Just put the phone down for a second and yank. Like a bandaid. Nice and quick."
"Okay..."
With my foot propped up on my opposite knee, I grabbed hold of the head of the nail, closed my eyes, and tore the foreign object out with a jerk.
"I did it! I did it!"
"Good job!"
"Do I need to go to the hospital?"
"Nah, just clean it off best you can and it'll heal."
Now, puncture wounds (which, obviously, is what this was) close up pretty quickly. I did what I could to clean the cut with alcohol, but by the time the nail was out, the hole looked more like a cute little freckle than the bacteria-ridden, internal gash that it was. Now, anyone who has watched a bit of Grey's Anatomy (thank goodness for our internet hook up) knows that yanking an object from a puncture wound can cause internal bleeding, infection, or other hidden damage. Maybe I should go to the hospital, I thought, remembering the dead baby bike race episode of Grey's when a bike spoke punctures Viper's organs.
 |
| The McKays after the baptism |
Our sister-in-law, Nikki, suggested that, yes, I should go get it checked out. But on a Sunday my doctor's office would be closed. Urgent Care would cost a pretty penny.
"Can't you just wait until tomorrow?" Rob asked.
Well, I wasn't going to miss school for a puffy foot. I got to the doctor's office around 3:30 Monday afternoon. When I told him the story, his eyes widened.
"You stepped on a nail and then you went to Houston!?" He was astounded. I immediately blamed the advice of my husband, my desire to believe that I'd been over-reacting. He stung me with a comment about "common sense" and prescribed two antibiotics for what appeared to be an infection. Thank god my patient file had revealed that the tetanus shot I'd gotten for our honeymoon in India was still current and I could claim I'd remembered that fact. I scheduled the follow-up that he insisted upon and left the office with my head hanging low but my heart soaring that the subject of amputation hadn't come up.
I share this memory for two reasons. First, I learned a lesson. Well, maybe a few. Timberlands work. Listen to your gut, not your husband. When living on a construction site, step with care.
Second, the memory and the scar tissue (that I can still feel) remind me of the dangerous job that the contractors on our site, building our home every day, are doing. In my next post, I'll share some of the sub-contractors' words of wisdom as they are written (upon my request) on our plywood floors.
