One evening shortly after 9/11 I was home with my sixteen year-old son, Bret, preparing dinner for the two of us. I am not sure what else I was cooking, but I know the menu included Uncle Ben's white rice. When the rice was done, I put it in a large bowl and brought it to the dining room table. I then returned to the kitchen to do the finishing touches to the rest of our dinner.
Bret was hungry and asked me how much rice he should put on his plate. I responded with, "As much as you want."
When I brought the rest of the food to the table, I saw he had put all the rice on his plate. I mean all of it. In retrospect, I know he was being playful. However, at that moment, I was not in a playful mood. I responded badly. I paid a price for my bad behavior.
I walked towards Bret who was standing near the table. I grabbed his t-shirt with my right hand. He backed away, forcing my hand to release his shirt. Sounds simple, right? That simple act broke the little finger of my right hand.
I don't remember any terrific pain, but I immediately realized something was wrong. I looked at my little finger and in the top crease where it normally bends, there was something in its place. I could no longer bend it. Right away I got in my car and drove to a nearby walk-in clinic. They told me I needed to go to a hospital.
Early the next day, I drove to the North Shore Hospital in Nassau County. The doctors in the Emergency Room referred me to a hand specialist whose office was nearby. I went there as fast as I could. When I walked in, his office was mobbed, peopled with a variety of finger and hand injuries. I waited patiently until it was my turn. The doctor took four patients at a time placing them in separate examining rooms where he rotated from one to another.
I wish I could remember my doctor's name, but he appeared to be of either Middle Eastern or South Asian ancestry. Besides that, he was a great surgeon and a great human being. He calmly explained to me what happened to my finger. He told me he would try to surgically repair the finger as best he could. However, he promised me that, at the very least, I would not have pain. I don't.
A few days later, as my doctor instructed, I arrived at another hospital on Long Island and waited for his call from the Emergency Room. Since he wanted to repair my finger ASAP, he said he would fit me into the surgical schedule when he could. I waited almost 12 hours in the ER. It was fascinating being there that long. I saw victims of heart attacks and auto accidents arriving, one after the other.
Finally, it was my turn. I remember being wheeled into surgery and then waking up afterwards with my finger heavily bandaged. When my finger recovered sufficiently my doctor prescribed occupational therapy.
I went to a clinic on the east side of Manhattan. I remember walking there on a busy street full of pedestrians with my left hand and arm in front of my recovering finger trying to protect it from further harm. My therapist was a short, fat lady who turned out to be great.
On my first visit, I asked her to be very gentle with my finger. She said she would. Then, she started manipulating it. The finger was so sensitive that I almost jumped out of my chair and banged the back of my head against the wall behind me. But, slowly over time, with her help, my finger came back to where it was before the accident.
And what was my accident? My therapist called it a "jersey injury." I responded like, "New Jersey?" No, she said, as in a "football jersey." Players grab each other's jerseys and when they break away from each other sometimes fingers are broken. You can see players tape their fingers before the game to protect them. Check it out next time you watch on TV or in person.
My therapist also had a sense of humor. On Halloween, she dressed up like a witch with a black costume and green makeup.
I messed up that night when I overreacted and got my finger broken. However, there was a silver lining. I got to meet two wonderful human beings.
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