Bjorn, the Thorn

I wrote about the one-and-three-sixteenths-inch splinter I removed from the palm of my right hand, via razor blade, in “The Hitchhiker” (https://markyswrite.blogspot.com/search?q=hitchhiker). One-and-three-sixteenths of an inch is the same as the diameter of a fifty-cent-piece. Ironically, this is not the longest sliver I have extracted from my body. No, I removed a longer one once from my thigh, but it is hardly worth mentioning because I used a handy pair of needle-nose pliers, and it was out within two minutes.

[Practically] no harm-no foul.

We all agree that size that is unimportant, right? Small is beautiful. It ain’t the meat-it’s the motion. He may be short, but he’s got a tall brain. You’ve heard ‘em all, except this one: When it comes to foreign intruders in the body, small can be as deadly as big. I’m living proof.

My foreign intruder, we’ll call him Bjorn the thorn, entered my left index finger, unknown, unseen and unfelt, at some point Friday morning, May 31st. There were no papers to flash and no customs to go through. Bjorn slid in home free while I was up-planting Heinz tomato plants, in a little patch just behind the black Arkansas tree. Being a southpaw, my left hand is my dominant one.

Whereas I wear work gloves for all the usual fun things such as pitch-forking, muscling buckets of compost around and working with irrigation watering systems, I cannot wear gloves to plant. My ten digits serve as individual probes, seeking out rocks, sticks, roots and anything that will get in the way of new roots stretching out to feel for parameters.

I can’t remove all impediments but I can try to give the roots of new seedlings the length of my hands. After that, they are on their own. Wearing gloves of any kind limits my ability to evaluate what’s going on beneath the surface of the soil. Because all of my prep work involves a pitchfork, and I know how to properly handle one of these critters, I rarely encounter anything but loose soil and countless numbers of unwanted small objects in the soil.

If your thumb looks like this, you might just be a farmer.

If my hands look as though they have done serious dirt time, it's because I have taken my 247 tomato plants from trays, to four-inch pots, to the ground outside. I have done the same with my trays of zinnias, sunflowers, black-eyed Susans, coleus, alyssum, snap-dragons, cosmos, bachelor buttons, and bells of Ireland. 

Gloves and dirt go together like Jameson and milk.

I do wash my hands religiously every time I come in from outside, and apply salve, but what can I say? Religion and I parted company more than fifty years ago. If you make it as long as I have, there are bound to be similar discards along the way: bell bottoms, vinyl, posters, incense and- 

[Editor’s note: Snap out of it…]

Despite photographic evidence, I am unclear specifically what Bjorn is/was. He emerged in little pieces, over the course of nine days, with me working three to four hours each day, in the wee hours. By working I mean soaking the finger in hot water, supplementing it every few minutes with water from a simmering tea kettle on the stove.

How something of this nature could enter my body without my knowing it, is explained by the fact that I am habitually finding new and creative ways to rip, scrape, cut, puncture, stab or otherwise mutilate my body. What I lack in productivity I make up for in intensity; as a result, I often do not become aware that calamity has befallen me, until I have picked myself back up off the ground. 

In this case it was sometime Friday when the persistent discomfort in my finger informed me that I had a marauder. I prefer the term “discomfort” to that of pain. As long as something is not causing pain, I am good to go. Don’t knock it-it works with weed-eating, processing tomatoes and pitch forking… 

If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't.

My biggest mistake was attacking Bjorn with a sterilized needle the first day, as though holding the tip above the flame on the stove somehow gave me the magical skills of a surgeon.

“Attack! Attack! They love it when I draw blood, which is not hard with a needle.”

Unsuccessful, after abusing that poor finger unmercifully, I now had Bjorn and an open sore to contend with. Oh, and an agenda which required that I continue to work the soil, a-not-so-unreasonable request on a farm. For nine days I worked as a farmer during the day and as a surgeon at night, a surgeon who flunked out of med school after the first semester, because I couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

Why didn’t I just take myself to the VA clinic? Because last year when I had that infection-in the same finger-I went to the VA only to be told that the computers were down, and that it wold be several hours. I left, after thanking the nice receptionist. No big deal-ferris wheel, though I did eventually lose most of the fingernail. I wrote about it in “Redlining it” (https://markyswrite.blogspot.com/2018/10/redlining-it.html).

I do not blame the clinic. I just can’t do waiting rooms, no matter the length of time. It’s why I always make appointments for the time the facility opens. There are still no guarantees, but it provides the best chance for success. The other factor is that I kept telling myself, this can’t go on forever.

After all, we’re not talking about the Giants’ Brandon Belt and his 23-pitch at-bat last season. We’re talking about some dinky piece of something in my finger. Every morning when I wrapped medical matters up, I would declare confidently, “Well, maybe it will just work its way out today.”

Is it a thorn? Is is it a sliver? Is it an alien?

When I finally succeeded in getting the biggest chunk to pop, it came after inserting my finger in a vise-grip and tightening it until the tip broke into the light. The vise-grip consisted of my two thumbs opposed to two fingers playing anaconda, and crushing the end of my finger. The scalding water dulled the pain to a low roar and the cannabis salve was quite soothing afterwards, the lollipop that the doctor gives you after your shot.

Enough of the tip stuck out that I was able to finally employ the tweezers, on-call and salty about it for nine consecutive days. It took another couple of days for straggling chunks to make their way out, but it happened and I am now pain-free. Will I change to using gloves while working the soil? Do you want a pleasant distortion of reality or the bitter truth? 

Line up accordingly, and I will hook you up.