Recently, my husband returned from back to back business trips. While he was gone, some of my routines remained unchanged, like running 2.5 miles a day, walking the dog in the evening, and keeping up with regular house stuff. In his absence, though, I ate lots of tofu meals, binged Ancient Aliens, rarely bothered to fix my hair or makeup, and wore comfy pajama-like clothes. One scandalous day I even skipped wearing a bra! I also cleaned out the garage, donating enough children’s books to outfit a sizeable library. I didn’t get on high ladders, nor did I trim back the hedges. Those things, I have learned, are best done when my better half is around.
I learned that the hard way.
It used to be that when Doug went out of town, I loved to accomplish a huge house project, like painting a big space or whatever. The bigger, the better, because I wanted to surprise him when he came home, hoping to hear some version of, “Oh, Jenn. You are amazing. Look what you did ON YOUR OWN! Boy, I sure married well.”
Eighteen years ago, my eldest was in all-day-kindergarten, my youngest was only a month old. Doug was on business halfway across the globe and due to return in days. The October skies in Kirkland were sunny and clear. The air was apple-crisp, and baby Bryn was asleep in a safe, cozy place downstairs. I opened up the patio doors and did yardwork while she napped. I mowed the postage stamp patch of grass, watered plants, and swept the pavers. Everything looked spit-spot-perfect. Then my gaze landed on the knee-high hedges that skirt along one side of the back porch. They looked like a feral poodle, overgrown in a patchy, ragged way that unsettled my inner-German. I began to trim the tops with kitchen scissors, but it was slow-going.
That’s when I remembered my big brother, Garth, had recently purchased hedge trimmers. Excited, I called him and in minutes he was at my house, loaners in hand. He said, “they cut like a hot knife through butter,” and was soon on his way.
I locked the door behind him and plugged in the electric trimmers.
Garth hadn’t lied. These things were cutting a smooth, flat plane over the top of the hedges. Whistling to myself, dreaming of the reverent way Doug would look at me when he saw the yard, I continued. Then, the orange power cord fell in front of the path of the trimmers. I reached to grab it out of the way and, ‘Slice!’ cut through my finger.
I dropped everything and wrapped the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my hand, binding it tight. I was too afraid to look at the damage I’d done. I knew, from the size of the red splash across my sweatshirt it was bad, really bad. I peeked in on sleeping baby, then felt lightheaded, like I might faint. I used the wallphone to dial Garth’s house. His answering machine picked up and at the beep I said, “Hi, Garth. I cut myself and, umm, I’m thinking I should go to the hospital. Can you come watch the baby?”
Mid-sentence, Garth jumps on the line. “Jenn if this is a joke, you are an asshole. But, I’m coming over. This better not be a joke!”
He hung up and I don’t remember answering the front door, only the look on Garth’s face when he saw the blood. He blanched and for a second, I thought HE was going to faint. I crossed my arms over my chest like a non-Catholic refusing the host, and led him inside.
“Garth! Pay attention!” I barked, because he really was pale. He’s always hated the sight of blood and I was dripping with it. I smelled like raw steak.
He focused on me, training his gaze on my face, no lower. “Okay, what do I do? Bryn hates me. What if she wakes up?”
It’s true. Everyone loves Garth. My eldest loved nothing more than hanging out at Uncle Garth’s because he was so funny and chill and he knew all of my most embarrassing stories and told them with wild abandon. Bryn, though, was the opposite. From birth, one look at Uncle Garth and she switched from calm and cool to an angry, bawling wreck. It wouldn’t last, but it was the reality during her early days.
“Okay,” I said, thinking through the plan. It was nearing the time I had to pick up my eldest from school, but I had time. “You grab Bryn. We’ll get her in her car seat and then you can drop me off at the ER. Keep driving and she’ll stay asleep. If it gets close to the end of the school day, you can loop through and pick up Nora.”
As Garth transferred Bryn into her car seat, as delicately as the removal of the wishbone in the game of Operation, her eyes snapped opened. Garth froze. I poked my face over his shoulder and Bryn frowned, then went back to sleep. Whew!
Ten minutes later, Garth slowed at the curb of Evergreen Hospital. Car not completely stopped, I got out. Inside, I was rushed to the front of the triage and brought to a room. I didn’t even have to say the magic words, “cat bite!” It only took an hour for them to stitch up my fingers, wrap them in gauze, and send me on my way. Before Garth picked me up, I took off my bloody sweatshirt. My tee shirt underneath was blood-free, thank god.
Garth pulled to the curb, his color restored, with both of my kids.
In the days to come, I had to redress my wounded finger which was the middle one, unfortunately. I had been instructed to hold it above my heart. The wrappings were thick and white, think Mickey Mouse gloves, but just the middle part, and when I drove, my chunky gauzed finger stood straight up above the steering wheel, like a milepost.
This brought confusion from the other drivers. Some, taking left turns across from me in an intersection, would mistakenly assume I was waving, and they’d wave back, smiling, then frown when I didn’t return their greeting. On another occasion, a driver thought I was flipping them off! They honked, leered and flipped me off with both middle fingers, which wasn’t just rude, it was dangerous.
In weeks, my finger healed, but the joke about the hedge trimmers cutting like a knife through butter became a staple at family gatherings. The scar from that accident remains and makes me feel simultaneously stupid and badass.
Eighteen years later, my husband felt enough time had passed. He purchased hedge trimmers and we both agreed I’m to never ever operate them.