Wrapped Around Your Finger

The accident happened like lightening, but the time it took for Rich to wrap up my filleted index finger felt unendingly longer. We then began the long journey down the mountain with blood drenched palms and a sense of regret for having left Half Dome unfinished. But there was no time to dwell on what remained undone.

The jog down was filled with all degrees of emotion as my finger went through the frightening stages of frostbite-like behavior. Two miles from the top, we rejoined the rest of the cast of fellow hikers, but I could barely get myself to stop. In retrospect, I was a bit rude, pummeling through them, disregarding niceties and whatnot. I hope they understood; my mind was fixated on putting six more miles behind me.

By the time we reached Yosemite Falls, the pain crept up to a throbbing. This was a good sign, since then I could feel my finger. In any case, we called 911 to patch us through to the Yosemite medical services. They asked if they needed to send someone to get me, but since my finger was pink again, I figured I could make it all the way down.

After three and a half hours, we found our way to the Yosemite clinic, where x-rays showed that the Nalgene bottle had broken and displaced the middle phalanx of my right index finger. I had no idea a bone had been broken. I was only worried about getting the profusely bleeding gash stitched up. But that was just the beginning. The doc then performed a digital block (I won’t explain it, but just so you know, that was a dang big needle), so he could flush out the wound and check for ligament damage. And after a dozen or so stitches, and a painful dressing as my finger regained consciousness, we began our four and a half hour drive to the Stanford ER.

The intermittent talk about another digital block, antibiotic IV, and a 2-3 hour wait for a hand surgeon to see me didn’t make for a shorter day. But the docs at the ER ended up not doing much more than jab me with four more needles, unwrap and rewrap my mangled finger, and set me up to see a hand surgeon the next day. Thankfully, I was able to sleep in my own bed that night.

Climb Every Mountain

There is a gross amount of satisfaction that follows the accomplishment of a great feat. This motivates people to push their bodies to extreme limits for all sorts of reasons. There’s the love of the sport, the thrill of the challenge, and the consequential nod in the history books. Who was it that climbed the mountain because it was there? I, on the otherhand, climb a mountain so I don’t ever have to do it again. So there lies Half Dome, once for the taking, once to be conquered, and of course, a trip I don’t have to plan.

I was quite apprehensive about the trek, primarily because I was unable to participate in all three preparatory hikes. Somehow, ten minutes on a stairmaster at a Holiday Inn in Trenton, Ontario did not suffice as adequate training. Granted, I did it three days in a row, but well, ya, I know. Dave was also unhappy that I wanted to do the hike in my trail runners. So I got myself a new pair of hiking boots, which I broke in at the office two days before our trip. After much heckling, my seasoned hiking coworkers gave me great advice about layering polyester clothes and socks, and how to tie my boots. All went well, the boots were comfortable, my legs didn’t give out, and I didn’t lose my nerves at the base of the dome. But then the unimaginable happened.

After taking an alternate fork in the climb to the cables, Rich and I followed a couple up a narrow, less traveled incline that we hoped would intersect the ascending cables. I actually had a flash of revolt, thinking we should traverse back to the base to find the proverbial road more traveled. But I trusted my brother, who is much more experienced in the outdoor arts. As soon as I swung my left leg around to follow my right, which had found a sandy foothold, Tupperware fell from the sky.

Solsbury Hill

I am spent. It is the fourth day of carting around my Chinese coworkers, bending my brain to think mineral insulated cable, building an operations infrastructure for a 10 year behind the times plant, and having a front row seat to half masticated western food in the mouths of my Chinese kids. And of course, they are not satisfied with whatever I order. Sigh. What can a parent do? Last night, I discovered they don't have shelter for the weekend, so travel agent Annie put together a makeshift tour of Toronto and Niagara Falls. Not bad for someone who's never been to Toronto as an adult. Just when I was about to put the finishing touches on the itinerary, lo and behold, the one credit card amongst the three has expired. Of course. But be gentle in spirit, and pray for divine navigational skills, as now I must deliver and check them into their hotel.

I'm physically tired, lonely, and have eaten my way to whale beachdom. Pretty unattractive, huh? It is draining to have three children; I am now able to commiserate with all you multi-kid parents. If y'all ever need a babysitter, I'm available, if not out of kindness, out of sympathy.

But freedom is near. I can taste it. So much so, I practically danced through the factory this morning as Peter Gabriel sang for me. This afternoon, I will chauffeur the kids back to Toronto, rush back to the airport, and hop a flight to Jersey with a softer, more sensitive willingness to serve my sister, her hubby, and her three tykes.

Grab your things, I've come to take you home.