It’s been over a month now since I had the unfortunate experience of breaking the middle finger on my left hand. Now, post surgery, sporting a Luke Skywalker styled hand with two metal rods pinning the joint firmly in to place I’m hopeful to regain full movement in the affected knuckle. Both of the pins actually stick out of my finger, one out the top with the other right through the tip and it’s that particular one that provides the basis for my story.

You see to protect the pin from any bumps or prods there is a small rubber ball on the end of it, similar to a tyre on the side of a boat to stop it banging against the dock. You can’t actually see this, nor the pins themselves, everything is hidden under a very attractive looking splint I’ve had moulded to my slender digit but it’s because of this rubber inertia dampener that I now find my finger to be a good two centimetres longer.

Graced with a new found reach you quickly learn just how subconsciously accustom you are to body’s limits. I can only personally liken it to a new pair of shoes that are slightly too large, you spend the first week or so bumping in to cupboards and having doors that you open clip them gently until your body starts to adjust for them without you even thinking about it. I’ve lost count of the amount of times having finished a meal my splint will be dripping in pasta sauce or most recently sweet chilli, eating a burger you tend to stab the guts out and lets not even mention knocking over liquids (thus far thankfully away from any expensive equipment – oh my poor couch!). The point is it takes some getting used to this body extension and that got me thinking.

Firstly it had me saying the word “extension” over and over in my head, which because of my lucid childhood arcade addiction I can not say without hearing the sound bite from Sega’s classic arcade racer “Daytona” playing over in my head… “Time ex-ten-sion!” Yes, I’m sad… this is not new information.

Secondly, and a little more on topic, being that I’m seeing a plastic surgeon to get all of this sorted out I’m constantly confronted with paraphernalia on what is obviously a plastic surgeon’s biggest drawcard in the current market, breast augmentation. Now if I’m having trouble dealing with an extra couple of centimetres on a finger how exactly do these women cope that wake up with a bust size that now doubles their previous waist circumference? I couldn’t imagine it! Forget about stubbing your toes on doors what about naked flames on gas-top stoves! I’m sure with time yes your body would adjust and things would become normal making considerations for your new found enhancements as I too have done over the past month or so but boy would it be a risky time. It certainly explains Robin Williams’ mishaps in Mrs. Doubtfire that’s for sure.

It’s not all doom and gloom though, the other day I found I could reach the remote control all the way on the opposite arm of the couch with my new found powers. Sure I can’t bend my finger but is that a fair pay off for my now super-hero like abilities? Stand back ma’am I’ll press that elevator button for you!! My kryptonite being of course anything requiring a firm two handed grip like brooms, vacuuming or housework in general riding a bike or holding a weapon.

Hmmm, ok, on second thought I’d be a pretty crap crime fighter.

In the few times that I’ve retold this story the consistent theme in each response has been along the lines of “Gee you’re accident prone aren’t you?” generally conveyed in a somewhat sarcastically rhetorical kind of way. I can’t blame them, in the past few years I’ve been hospital twice already and now with this latest endeavour I’m surgery bound once more.

The short version of events comes down to my knuckles trying to (unsuccessfully) catch an American football. Normally I’d allow the palms of my hands to look after such a task but on this particular occasion my brain decided to do things differently, you know, try and keep things fresh and all. I had, after all, been catching balls using the tried and true method for quite a few years now and it’s just plain dull.

It would seem however that my knuckles, or to be more specific the top knuckle of my left middle finger, wasn’t quite up to the challenge on this particular day and instead it felt the need to sustain an injury called “mallet finger” where the tendon is over extended and stretched causing a rather significant amount of pain.

My doctor the next day didn’t seem particular concerned with what had taken place, “A common injury among footballers I see every day” he told me, whilst at the same time observing my rather scrawny body seated opposite him and quietly quizzing himself as to why on Earth I would even put such a fragile frame in a position. I felt the need to reassure him that I was merely tossing the old pig-skin with a mate and not actually participating in an actual game. That would, of course, be suicide.

“Nothing to worry about” he said, “We’ll just take an x-ray to be sure but you’ve got some movement there, which is good, but you’ll be splint bound for about 8 weeks, less than 5% chance there’d be anything else going on”.
Oh joyous day, my day-job of programming was sure to suffer from the splinted attributes I was soon to inherit and no doubt it would of course ice my moonlighting career as the new wide receiver for the Green Bay Packers but that’s ok, they were knocked out of this years Superbowl that morning – most likely due to my absence mind you.

X-ray done and a few minutes waiting for the docs return I was met with what could only be described as “you’ll-never-frakin’-believe-it-but-you’re-in-that-5%-I-shouldn’t-have-mentioned-about-10-minutes-ago” look smacked across his gob. I started to smile, it just seemed funny waiting for him to try and figure out how to break the news to me that my finger was completely rooted. The smile evolved into a giggle and I apologised telling him that it was OK I was used to being in the medical minorities.

Turns out my tendon had done a little chop and wiggle from my bone, which was already expected, but a shard of bone had come loose, which again was kind of expected but as this shard was over 50% the size of the joint it was a little bigger than 8 weeks in a splint was going to fix and meant it was going to need some surgery to get things back on track.

“I’m going back to the tit doctor aren’t I?” I asked him.
“Um… sorry?”
“I had my wrist operated on a few years back by a plastic surgeon” I informed him, “His entire office was decorated with breast implants that he displayed with gusto & pride; ‘tit doctor’”.
“Ah, well yes, that’s probably where you’re headed” he confirmed.

Turns out my plastic surgeon is on a little extended leave post new years and I wont be seeing him any time soon meaning my day surgery attendance is beyond that by some time. At this rate I’ll do 8 weeks in the splint, have the surgery and then spend another month recovering (in a splint). I might make the Packers’ pre-season if I’m lucky! Haha.

As you can imagine having any body appendage retarded you begin to quickly realise just how often you rely on it. Sure it’s my non-dominant hand but I’m quickly broaching a new level of admiration for those of the world missing limbs or paralysed. In that spirit here’s a quick top 5 list of things I’ve found embarrassingly difficult to achieve only one finger down.

1. Squeezing toothpaste out of a tube while holding a toothbrush at the same time.
2. Putting deodorant on, it now involves resting the can on my bedside table and pushing the button with my thumb and spraying it al over my arm nowhere near my armpit.
3. Eating a meal that requires cutting meat, the “stab & devour” method of food consumption is now employed on a regular basis.
4. Opening a bottle of… well anything really, even though I use my right hand to twist the cap keeping a grip with my impaired left hand is like lifting a 10kg weight with my pinky finger only.
5. And then finally… making the bed. It took me 20 minutes to put on a fitted sheet yesterday, the whole process now involves me holding the sheet in my teeth whilst lifting the mattress with my good hand and hooking it underneath. It’s just plain awesome to watch in a rather sad yet unbelievably humour-able fashion.

All that said typing is something that I’ve quickly adapted to doing one finger down and once this new medical chapter comes to an end I’ll probably have to teach myself to use the current dead-weight-digit the other 9 are carrying on the keyboard!

I’m going to give you the ending to this story before I begin to tell it, not because it’s some clever film noir script, but because if my Mum reads the title she’ll freak out and worry that I’m lying in a ditch yet somehow able to write this post with my dying breaths. So, obviously the end is that I’m fine. I’m nursing a rather swollen right knee, feeling extremely stiff and sore the day after but I’m alive and walking and there’s no stitches.

Now for the story behind said injuries. The so called “Summer” here in Toronto seemed to last the first week I was here amidst the humid heat wave of mid 30′s, pffft, whatever… mid 30′s. Since that first week there’s been a mixture of rain that seems scheduled to start at 5pm each day and torrential downpour that just ruins the entire day. With that said I haven’t really had the opportunity to ride my lovely new bike to work; that is, until yesterday.

It was such a beautiful day, the sun was out, some light cloud cover of the fluffy white variety adorned the sky and a cool breeze flowed over me as I rode through the streets of downtown Toronto. So there I was, happily riding down King St heading towards work, a small bird had perched itself on my shoulder, the two of us whistling to the tune of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” when all of a sudden a car door begins to open about 10 metres in front of me.

Now I can’t blame this guy for causing what was about to ensue but it was the catalyst. The door opened gently as they’d obviously not checked for anyone coming, be it car or bike for that matter, and I did what any cyclist would do, check my left shoulder and swerve out to avoid smashing into the door. That was all well and good, no problems getting out of the way there but in swerving out of the way of the car door I’d managed to get my bike tires firmly lodged in the rather deep rut of Toronto’s street car (tram) tracks.

From realizing I had my tires caught in the track and picking myself up off the ground to a resounding yell of “f@#k” took about 3 seconds, most of which was spent sliding along the asphalt in a sort of baseball like position on my right knee and shin. Brushing myself off inspecting the scene I’d remarkably not scratched any part of the bike frame nor any of my body besides the now large hole in my jeans and a sort of cheese grated knee. I was pretty happy with my fall skills, who knew that those two months in Boy Scouts would actually pay off!

The worst part of it all, other than today’s throbbing pain and swelling, is that because I’d passed the car a while back and slid so far on the ground it looked like I’d fallen off for no reason what so ever to those viewing the spectacle. I just looked like a complete numpty that didn’t know how to ride a bike. Good thanks!