Disclaimer: This entry contains graphic descriptions of a physical Injury. Reader discretion is advised
On 27 April, 2021, I lost part of my right index finger inside my dog’s clenching jaws. It was a tempest and a comedy of errors both. Like all accidents, the mishap unfolded under circumstances most ordinary.
Miles, an eight-year old Australian Shepherd, had developed an abscess in one of his pre-molars. The vet suspected an infection and suggested an x-ray for further investigation. The image revealed an infection at the roots, leaving us no choice but to extract the tooth. The poor pup went into the operating room on a Wednesday afternoon and emerged several hours later dazed and indolent, a prominent swelling on the right side of his face. We were to give him soft foods and not to let him chew on anything hard. We came home with anti-biotics ad anti-inflammatory meds. The dog lumbered to his bed, dropped like a sack, and was out for the the evening.
The next morning, he was up at the usual time and noticeably peppier than the previous evening. We ventured out for our usual morning walk. After he completed his business, we turned around and went home. Pausing to sniff the grass by the sidewalk, he picked up a discarded chicken bone, and began to munch on the newfound snack. I worried that the bones might open up the fresh sutures. Having previously removed numerous items from his mouth, an imposition he always tolerated, I reached for the bone inside moving jaws and searched for the snack. Perhaps out of grumpiness, perhaps in panic over an intrusive digit probing around a fresh wound, Miles clamped his jaws tight with my index finger between his teeth. Anvils and razors. White hot pain. I bawled, pulled my finger out and was appalled by the sight of a nail split open, the fingertip mangled, fresh blood seeping through gore.
In that moment, I felt a swelling urge to kick him hard. The fight reaction swept over me and a heated constriction in my chest wound me tight. I took note of the urge and instead turned around and pulled Miles behind me. C’mon, let’s go, I said without another glance. Miles was still munching on the bone, bits of my finger mixed in that morsel, seemingly oblivious to what he had done. We entered the building, rushed to the elevator, blood dripping onto the floor. I opened the door to my apartment and said to my wife: “We’ve got to get to the hospital. Miles just chewed off my finger.”
My wife wrapped a hand towel around the base of my finger. We walked to the hospital two blocks away, the mutilated finger pointed skyward, like Plato marred, the chilly air folding into the searing wound. I was admitted immediately. The staff looked at my finger, their faces barely containing their dismay. The nurses took me to a bed and brought me bandages and painkillers. The man next to me was just leaving the ER due to a mysterious case of rash. On the bed, I took a picture of the mangled finger, blood soaking through the make-shift bandage. Thoughts oscillated from catastrophe to confident assurance: what if I’m not able to play guitar again? It’s not a big deal, the doctors will take care of it. Maybe no bone was lost.
I received excellent care the moment I stepped through the door. The nurses were attentive, the doctors empathetic. Two young female residents came to see me. They gingerly removed the bandage and examined the wound.
“You said that a dog did this?”
“Yes.”
“And it was your own dog?”
“Yes.” I answered, embarrassed by the absurdity of the mishap.
“Play any musical instruments?”
“Yes, guitar.”
The residents dropped their faces in empathy. She mentioned that they will likely have to amputate part of the finger. Amputate? The word was jarring. I associated amputation with injured veterans and horrific workplace accidents. Me? An amputee? The pronouncement spun me into a swirl of incredulity. The prospect of amputation confronted an image that I held of myself as healthy and whole, limbs and digits intact — and by extension, a stable self impervious to the jolts of happenstance. In the utterance of a word, I came to the shore of a self-concept and watched the horizon wash into a receding coastline. Whatever I thought I was, I was no longer.
For all the bustle and activity in its halls, a hospital is in essence an educational institution. Residents consult fellows, fellows consult attending physicians. At the x-ray clinic, I watched a young technician work the x-ray apparatus with some trepidation, his mentor stern and unforgiving as she issued orders. She was clearly unhappy with this intern, and her curt responses seemed to feed the nervousness that led to incompetence. He placed a white tablet under my fingers, bleeding again from the walk to the x-ray department, and placed the x-ray device over my hand. Blood was smearing onto the tablet, and I apologized to the technicians. No need to apologize, the senior technician said. She was courteous with me, but brusque with her apprentice. The images were taken, but apparently something had gone awry. She turned to the intern and iterated her displeasure: didn’t we agree to image it this way? The question belied her point: the intern had fallen short of her expectations, and the images had to be taken again. She walked out of the room to prepare the procedure while the intern sat next to a panel of buttons and dials.
“We’re awfully sorry about this” he said.
“No problem, you’re doing a wonderful job.” I replied, hoping to be of comfort.
The senior technician returned. They took the x-ray again. This time the images sufficed. They usher me into the hallway. As I left, I wanted to ask the senior technician to take it easy on the intern, to say that we all have to learn some way, start somewhere. However, I thought it better not to assume too much about their relationship and left the ward without a word. I still think about that interaction, whether I should have mentioned something as a patient witnessing this apparent lack of care in a system charged with providing care.
In times of disruption, there is a distinct opportunity to peer into one’s conditioning, the inclinations that automate one’s behaviours. Having returned to my ER bed after a visit to the x-ray, my mind turned to matters of productivity. Hospitals are notorious for their wait-times, and I itched for some way to make good use of the passing hour. I was nearly finished with the second draft of my dissertation and woke up that day in anticipation of completing the final three pages that would become the postlude. However, the sudden visit to the hospital upended my plans. I sat on the bed thinking that I would type a few words, or at least edit the previous day’s work. My wife brought me my laptop, and I began to scroll the text, the injured finger extended while the rest of my fingers pecked at the keyboard. Could I not rest and abide this interruption to my day? Must I have resumed my agenda regardless of injury? In my mind, the revised dissertation was almost a year in the making, and I could not let slip a day’s work. So, I dabbed at the keys. A few words of the last three pages was typed on that hospital bed, bloody bandage and all. Foolish obstinacy or noble determination, the instance on completing the project revealed a predilection for work that would not be deterred even at the cost of a body part.
Besides the terror of the accident, there were moments of humour also. I was led by a nurse to the plastic surgery unit, located in a building across the street. The walk to the unit sent blood coursing through my body, and fresh blood began to seep again when I reached reception. In an effort to stop the bleeding, I raised my hand, injured finger extended, like a pupil with an unanswered question. Passers would look at me quizzically, only to realize my posture after seeing the injured finger. One elderly lady with a walker ambled past me, puzzled over my raised hand, and smiled behind her mask when she put it all together.
“We have to smile with our eyes,” she said.
“Yes, indeed.” I replied, imagining my squinting eyes behind my mask.
A patient who was scheduled for an operation at eleven o’clock had failed to show. The doctors booked me in for the empty slot. There were four of us in the operating room, a practicing fellow, the supervising surgeon, and a nurse. The procedure would see the doctors clip the jagged end of the severed bone, the distal phalanx, smooth out the remaining fragment, pull the surrounding tissue to cover the exposed bone. Once the local anesthetic was administered, I did not feel a tickle. The grinding and pulling of the bone and tissue was unnerving, but the doctors kept me engaged with conversation. They were keenly interested in my doctoral research, my experience living off-grid. Thus, conviviality moderated the tragedy of the event.
When they were through, I looked at my finger and saw the cross-section of a burrito. They had sewed the surrounding tissue tight around the exposed bone, but there was not enough skin to cover the open wound. Where there used to be finger tip was now a mess of blood and skin.
“it’s not pretty, but it’ll heal.” The doctor said. The surgeon assured me that tissue would grow around the bone, that skin would cover the wound and the fingertip would be round again, albeit in a different form. I had lost 0.5mm off the tip of the finger. I walked home with the right index finger encased in dressing, a white corndog cap over a shortened digit.
That night, and for several weeks thereafter, I continued relived the moment of the injury. Out of reflex, the mind kept returning the accident. My body jumped and squirmed with each flashback, my face contorted with the memory of pain. It was clear that the trauma was inscribed into experience, and I was caught in the moment of injury. In sleep, I bolted awake at the image of the dog’s jaws mutilating my hand. In the days that followed, I sat on the cushion and watched the flashbacks with patience and compassion. My training in meditation taught me to welcome each flashback in the spirit of friendliness. More specifically, I relived each flashback as if Love itself had suffered with me, present with me in my pain. In the instant that I lost part of my finger, Love engulfed me, surrounding me with compassion. I watched each flashback as if love embraced both me and Miles, who did something he did not mean. By welcoming the memories with compassion, the trauma faded and no longer has the power to torment.
The entire episode was a study in the unpredictability of life, how the humdrum routines of an accustomed hour is punctured by randomness, how the illusion of steadiness is shot clean by unpredictability. We go about each day expecting to live, to manage more of the same. This is how humans streamline their reality and consolidate their adaptive resources. That each day is lived in a dream-like automaticity is not a fault in our conditioning, nor a flaw in our evolution. And yet, in the mysterious churning of this whirling cosmos, we don’t know how the confluence and events and conditions create a profusion of outcomes. Someone discards a chicken bone into the grass, a dog picks up its scent, I lose the tip of my finger. The semblance of normalcy comes up against the prickly edges of a world that eludes my grasp and confounds the most basic of expectations. When the bubble of what I supposed was a normal day had deflated, I glimpsed into spaces of possibility, a space vacant of the self, that ragged toy that I have worn out for too long.
During the surgery, the doctor asked me: “So do you still love your dog?”
“I don’t know, we’ll see.” I said.
I couldn’t bear to look at him for a few days. But our bond is indescribable, and my grudge wore thin. He looks at me with expectation and longing, oblivious to his crime. Responding to the doctor again, I would say: Yes, I do. I still love my dog.