The Good Soldier

I’ve already alerted any reader of my blog that I’m afraid I’m going to die soon. There is no imminent threat or disease, just the fear that life isn’t going to last forever. For this reason, I feel compelled to document important experiences. Also, I’m huge into reading memoirs right now hence why I am so reflective on my life’s material. Unfortunately, since this is the only place I write anything anymore, readers must be bored with stories from my past. If you are reading this blog for updates and pictures of the kids, read no further and look at the entry below. If you want to hear a nice gory story with a good ending, read on.

I have one memory burned in my mind from the summer I turned five. Though it happened 27 years ago, I can recall every detail as if it happened yesterday. I have earlier memories from being three and four, such as getting swallowed by a wave in Hawaii and holding my baby sister. However, those memories are just snippets of life whereas this memory was my first great experience of life.

I’ve already divulged my obsession with cats at this age and that is why I was pushing all my weight against the heavy brown garage door. Those baby kittens were in there and I wanted them. On the other side of the door, my eight year old brother Kip was pushing with all his weight to keep the door closed. I could hear the other brother Todd, eleven, yelling, “keep her out!” It was a typical sibling teasing scuffle of the time. My brothers liked to make me cry. Poor Kip couldn’t have known that as he pushed all his force into the door that my left hand pinky finger was lodged between the door hinges and the jamb. (Later he would justify his role in the situation by saying, “I was just being a good soldier.”) As the door shut I felt the excruciating pinch and must have let out a blood curdling howl because the door flew back open and my pinky emerged with the top portion hanging off. I remember my panic at seeing the maimed flesh and the river of blood spilling onto the patio cement.

I raced through the back door and located my parents in their bedroom. They were readying themselves for a temple date and were dressed in Sunday best. Their periwinkle temple suitcases laid in waiting on the bed. My older sister Suzi, had seen me come in and was holding my dangling digit together with the mainland of my hand with a load of toilet paper. I was crying hard out of fright but not out of pain. I remember vividly that my finger just felt tingly.

In my next memory we were sitting at American Fork Hospital in the ER and the doctor had just told my parents that my finger could not be saved. I was still crying hysterically. After the doctor left, my dad asked the nurse if he could pull the curtain around my bed for privacy. He then gave me a priesthood blessing. A blessing is a special prayer of comfort given by a priesthood holder in our church. When the blessing ended, I stopped crying and never cried again about my finger. Feelings of warmth and comfort filled my body like a flood. The peace was so sweet and tangible. I doubt I could ever find the right words to describe the feeling. What strikes me about this memory is that I was too little to have been taught to feel that way after a blessing. I felt it because it was real.

My parents decided to fight for my finger. They drove me to Provo and consulted with a plastic surgeon. I was given crazy drugs and I remember hazily looking up as the doctor stitched me back together. I saw my parents sitting next to my bed my mother dressed in a smart suit dress and my dad in his black suit. When I see them in my mind that way, together, concerned for me, and loving me, it is easy to understand why it was a disaster to my psyche when I lost them. They were so comforting as a pair.

My last recollection of the experience is holding my badly infected finger in a pot of warm salt water a week after the accident. I heard my mom on the phone. She was calling the temple to add my name to the temple prayer list. I understood that all the faithful LDS members who attended the temple in the next week would pray for me and others who were on the list. Not long after, my finger completely healed.

My little pinky looks fine. There’s a scar of course that hurts when it’s cold and feels tingly if manhandled. The scar is a reminder of a great miracle that happened many years ago. It was an experience that taught me there is someone above who loves me. I was comforted and healed even though I was an insignificant five year old child. What’s even better is I don’t have to wear a fake finger.