This is the continuation of a story that began on Taoist Bikers site.
I was having an issue with someone. They were doing things to someone I wasn’t happy with.
After some reasoned discourse it came to a point in the road where discourse was exhausted. I knew this because I was getting shoved. It took a few times but even a lunkhead such as myself knew I should take off the diplomatic pouch.
After another shove I pushed back. I did that do get a little distance between myself and this fellow. I was gauging range and making my plan.
I didn’t want to hurt this person but did want them to know I was unhappy with their current activities and didn’t cotton to them shoving me.
I went into the set stance (I wasn’t many years out of amateur boxing so fell into it rather quickly) and started to bounce. I picked my spot. All I wanted to do was give him a black eye.
You see, this person spent more time grooming than anyone I’d ever seen. I figured a black eye would remind him of his current behavior for a week or so. I saw my opening and. . .stopped.
I set up as a lefty (my standard) then thought,
“You can’t hit him with your left hand. You are unquestionably going to hurt your hand so use your right.”
I changed the set and pushed him off a few times. You see, at this time I was a professional tennis player so figured I could still toss a serve with a bruised hand. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold a racket so, go to the right.
I picked my spot – just below the eye – and feigned to get my opening. I was going with a jab, nothing big. Just in and out. I moved. The hand stuck out. And there was contact.
Huh, didn’t hurt me much at all.
But this guy falls into the wall and when he looks up I see something unexpected. Okay, I may have expected a little blood – faces bleed – but this was a lot. And it looked a lot lower than the eye.
I took into consideration that, when you jab at a person they shrink and cover. I forgot this person is an idiot. They stood up which moved their mouth where their eye used to be.
They’re screaming and bleeding. All I see is this gaping hole in their mouth. Four teeth have been moved from their pervious location. Someone else comes in to see what the ruckus is.
I explain my side, they blabber something unintelligible through gums and swollen lips. I figure they’re telling me I’m going to be buying them new teeth. The other person gets some towels, toss the bleeding guy one and begins sopping up the floor.
It looked worse than it was. Mouths bleed. I’m wiping up blood and it seems to be getting worse. That makes no sense to me until I’m told my hand is bleeding. I look at it, it’s a little cut. Nothing. I put some tape on it and clean up the rest while the bleeder is taken to the hospital.
A couple of days later (after I’ve found out the other guy had a dislocated jaw and punctured ear drum) I’m sleeping on a chair. It was the only place I could sleep because if my hand went below my heart the pain was incredible. I wake up one night, call a double partner and tell him I’ve got to go to the hospital.
Where they operate immediately.
It was weird to see how far hand skin stretches and the thing they’re allowed to take out of you but it was fun to chat with the doctor during the operation. We talked about my hand and other things (I gave him some tennis advice) until the operation was over. I was told to take some of these pills and come back in a few days. So I did as told and went back a few days later.
Where they admit me immediately.
I find myself in a bed with tubes in my right hand, bandages on my left. That sort of sucked. Expect for dinner time. Where a nurse would have to feed me. That was quite the perk.
A couple of days later I’m well enough to get cut. This time I know the doctor. We’ve been friends for a few years. I’d taught half of his family tennis. I figure, even better than the last time, this operation will be fun.
It wasn’t. He wouldn’t let me see what he was doing. So, for however long it took, I was busting his balls. At the end of the operation he asked if I wanted to see. Of course I did! He stepped back and,
“Thanks for not letting me watch that, Gene. Did you take out my spleen?”
It was quite the mess.
A few days later I can move my hand. It’s still numb but I had some motion. I’ve already popped my stitches from squeezing a tennis ball. I’m getting my walking papers, say goodbye and thanks to everyone and wait to be released.
The doctor comes over and says he wants to talk to me before he leaves. For some reason we took a ride in the elevator.
“So,” the doctor begins. “What hand do you play with?”
“Left, like you. Why?”
“Because there’s still a possibility you’ll lose use of half your hand.”
“And when were you planning on telling me that?” Which is a stupid question, always will be, because the answer is always,
It took some time to get the feeling back but it eventually did. The scar is still there, there is still some numbness and there’s less of that stuff you brighter folk have in their hand but it’s good.
And thus a happy ending.