My sausage finger is now ready for amputation.
I instantly trust the take-charge doctor who enters the room without looking at me. No time waster, he focuses on the bloody hand laid open on a metal table. After prodding the deep cut in my middle finger for ten seconds, he makes a dramatic announcement: “three stitches.” The nurse who preps me for the minor surgery is annoyed, for I have bled profusely, dripping onto the dark gray mat by the reception desk before leaving a detective-worthy trail to the examination room. In her eyes, I am nothing but a biohazard, and a stupid one at that. Continue reading
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