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So yesterday evening was interesting; I got a call at a few minutes to six from my brother, who said "If you're not doing anything for the evening, you might head over to St. James Hospital. Dad's in there."
Turns out he was working with a large blade on the circular saw (he's a carpenter; at the moment he makes stairs) and something slipped, causing, as best anyone can make out, the blade to hit the back of his left middle finger, near the end, cutting down to the bone, fracturing it, through the nail, and dragging the remains of the end of the finger about half an inch forward. There's splitting damage to the underside as well. Messy. He's doing fine, though - they're operating this morning to try to put it back together, and he was in more discomfort last night from the drip-and-anaesthetic thing in his arm than from the finger itself. If it doesn't go back together reasonably, he'll have the tip of the finger off, and be reasonably happy with that; he'll be better off with a short finger than a long one. And it'll get him out of the workshop, which is a concept he's been working on for some time. We brought him in a pile of reading material, since he was reduced to a Maeve Binchy novel, and stayed in to chat until visiting hours were over at 8.
St. James has just finished a new wing - pretty much a whole new hospital, I think - which is so much better than the old one that it's frightening. The old one was pretty grotty, this is shiny and clean and modern and quite nice. I'm much more comfortable with Dad being in there now than I would have been with the way it was.
Turns out he was working with a large blade on the circular saw (he's a carpenter; at the moment he makes stairs) and something slipped, causing, as best anyone can make out, the blade to hit the back of his left middle finger, near the end, cutting down to the bone, fracturing it, through the nail, and dragging the remains of the end of the finger about half an inch forward. There's splitting damage to the underside as well. Messy. He's doing fine, though - they're operating this morning to try to put it back together, and he was in more discomfort last night from the drip-and-anaesthetic thing in his arm than from the finger itself. If it doesn't go back together reasonably, he'll have the tip of the finger off, and be reasonably happy with that; he'll be better off with a short finger than a long one. And it'll get him out of the workshop, which is a concept he's been working on for some time. We brought him in a pile of reading material, since he was reduced to a Maeve Binchy novel, and stayed in to chat until visiting hours were over at 8.
St. James has just finished a new wing - pretty much a whole new hospital, I think - which is so much better than the old one that it's frightening. The old one was pretty grotty, this is shiny and clean and modern and quite nice. I'm much more comfortable with Dad being in there now than I would have been with the way it was.
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