The Doors, Part One

Sorry for the lack of posts - work has been extremely busy, but my boss is out today so I'm going to take some time and slack off and write in my blog. Then I'm going to take a long lunch and spend some time with my man, THEN I'll actually apply myself to the reformatting of a very ugly Installation and Operations Manual.

So, fueled on strong coffee and the breakfast of champions - frosted cherry poptarts, of course - I'm going to share the bizarre story of injuries caused by doors that have happened between my sister and I, you lucky bitches.

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Cast of Characters:

Me: bratty 2 y/o
Sister: persnickety 6 y/o
Mom: stay-at-home mom
Dad: MSgt in the Army

Year: 1974

Place: Base housing, Ft Bragg, NC, a few blocks up from where Green Beret Jeffrey McDonald savagely murdered his family, smeared blood all over the walls and blamed a cult about a year previous to the incident about to be relayed. The book was called Fatal Vision and was a best seller.


Our story begins on a week day much like any other week day. My sister was in 1st grade, my dad was at work, and I was at home with my mother. Being 2, I idolized my sister and all her stuff, so while she was in school every day, I would venture into her room and pull out all her toys and play with them. She didn't like this very much because she didn't like me messing with her stuff and to tell the truth, she just really didn't like me at this point in our lives, period. Upon her return home every day, she would (understandably) blow a gasket when she saw I had trashed her room.

On this particular day, she had returned home to find I had trashed her room AGAIN. I was following her around like a puppy and she got fed up and shoved me out the door and slammed it in my face. Well, I didn't WANT to be shoved out of her room and have the door rudely slammed in my face, so I stuck my wee little hand between the jam and the oncoming heavy wood door.

Not so bright, in hind sight. Have I mentioned that children don't reach the age of reason until 6? And I was 1/3 of that age? Yeah. You know what's coming.

Within seconds my mom heard screaming. She ran upstairs to find both my sister and I screaming - me on one side of the door, and my sister on the other and blood everywhere.

You see, the slamming door severed the pinky finger on my left hand between the first joint and the base of my fingernail. I was on one side of the door trying to get the rest of my hand out of the jam and my sister was on the other side with my bloody finger.

Say it with me... eeeeewwww.

My mom yanked open the door to assess the damage. My finger was still attached, but it was dangling off on the side like a flower with a snapped stem, only attached by a piece of skin. She brought me into the bathroom and wrapped a cold wet washcloth around it, tried to reach my father but couldn't, so she called our neighbor, who rushed the three of us, all crying hysterically and covered in blood, to the emergency room at Womack Army Hospital.

Meanwhile, my dad was already on his way home for the day - hence the reason why my mom couldn't reach him. He gets home to find the front door open, blood tracked down the foyer, up the stairs, all in the hall, in my sister's room, pooled in the bathroom sink and all three of us missing. Not a good moment for my father. Since it was 1974, there were no cell phones, so he had no idea where we were or what had happened.

Luckily, my father is also a very rational and logical person, so he ran back out to his car and jumped in and hauled ass to the emergency room, figuring he would check there first and then deal with the next step if we were still nowhere to be found.

~~~Sidenote: Here's an interesting anecdote that my dad just revealed to my sister and I when they were visiting last month over Christmas that attests to the camaraderie and brotherhood of our nation's military: Upon our arrival at the ER, we were recognized by a friend of our dad - they had served in Vietnam together and become close friends. Since he didn't see my dad with us, he knew what kind of scene my dad was going to find when he got home. This friend and fellow soldier sent an escort of MPs to our house to find my dad and escort him to the ER, and also to tell him where we were and that we were ok so my dad wouldn't worry. I think that is the most considerate action I have ever heard in my life and if I knew where this guy was, I would find him and kiss him and thank him for being such a fantastic person. ~~~

My dad arrived at the ER and found my poor, scared 6 y/o sister curled up in a ball in the waiting room, all by herself, still covered in my blood, thinking she killed me. The idiots in the ER wouldn't let her back in the trauma bay with me and my mom.

He scooped her up and took her back to the trauma room and found my mom and me, with my finger stitched and bandaged with a cast that was so heavy that my finger was bending backwards because it couldn't support the weight.

We all went home and lived injury free happily ever after.

Well, until 11 years later...