Christmas Eve: A Tale of Two Injuries

Today is my lovely little sister Sam’s birthday.  In honor of this occasion, I thought I’d share two Christmas Eve stories about us.  For many families Christmas is a blissful celebration of love, warmth and togetherness.  For poor Sam, Christmas Eve brings blood and gore.

Part 1: Ice Skating

Rewind 17 years for the first story.  It was a warm Christmas Eve day (for Minnesota) and since there was no school, Sam and I thought it would be a perfect day to go ice skating.  Earlier in the winter we had cleared the snow off of a drainage pond near our house: the surface was perfect for skating.

To get to our make-shift ice rink we had to walk down a treacherous hill.  Since the hill was so tricky to navigate, we’d usually wear our snow boots while walking down the hill, and then balance on one foot, then the other, while we laced up our skates down at the pond.

Since that particular Christmas Eve day was so warm, I wore a sweatshirt without a bulky winter jacket.  Since I was, at that time in my life, convinced that I was destined to become a concert pianist, I also wore thick mittens to protect my “precious” hands from chill or injury.

Our skating started off fun.  We were trying to spin around, skate on one foot, and skate backwards.  I can only imagine, looking back at it, how ridiculous I must have looked:  lanky and uncoordinated with limbs flailing everywhere.  It didn’t matter:  I felt so cool.  In my mind there was a huge crowd watching.  The amazed onlookers would lean in and whisper to each other that they never dreamed such a tall and awkward girl could become such an amazing figure skater: “and to think, she didn’t start until she was 13!”

Me in my skating fantasy world

I was completely wrapped up in my ice skating fantasy world when I heard a dull thud.  I looked up to find Sam face-first, sprawled out on the ice.

I couldn’t stop in time:  the blade of my right skate sliced right across her small, mittenless hand.

Shit! I thought.  Mom and Dad are going to kill me!  I shouted the only thing that came to my mind: “Why didn’t you wear MITTENS?!”  Nice.  Very comforting.  Not my finest moment (when Sam tells the story she gives me an awful, wicked witch voice when I say that line).

In a panic I scooped Sam up and examined the scene of the accident to see if there were any fingertips I’d have to collect for the doctors to reattach.  I breathed a sigh of relief once I was certain there were no severed body parts.  Now I just had to get her back to the house.

We began our ascent up the slippery, snowy hill.  There was no time to put snow boots back on, so I braved the climb in my skates.  If you’ve ever tried to walk up a hill in ice skates you know how difficult it is.  If you keep your feet pointing straight ahead you’ll just slide backwards right down the hill.  You have to point your toes out as far as possible in a duck-walk (or third position, in ballet) in order to get any traction whatsoever.

Somehow we got Sam to the house.  She was whisked off to the ER to have her hand stitched back together.  I’m pretty sure that’s one of the crappiest ways to spend Christmas.  Thankfully her fingers were mended and she is left with only a small scar.  No matter how small the scar, however, she makes sure to remind me of the brutal finger slashing each time we get together.  “YOU SHOULD HAVE WORN MITTENS!!” has become an ongoing joke between us.  Each time it’s repeated, the voice gets more sinister, wicked and evil.

Part 2: Zip Ties on a Toy Guitar

Fast-forward to the present day.  Christmas of 2010:  Sam and her son came to Dallas to spend the holiday with Dad.  We decided that gift opening would happen on Christmas Eve, in keeping with the tradition from our childhood.  That evening was full of great conversation, delicious hors d’oeuvres, and wine.   Everything seemed to be going well until my nephew opened a gift from me: a toy electric guitar.

Have you ever tried to get a really cool toy out of the packaging?  It’s impossible.  That guitar was secured into its packaging with at least 20 heavy plastic zip ties.  There was no use in trying to rip it out.  Each plastic tie needed to be cut.  Dad tossed Sam a pocket knife so she could free the toy and allow my nephew to commence noise making.

With the skilled flourish of an expert Sam flipped open the pocket knife and we saw it: she nicked the palm of her hand.  Everyone in the room held our breath, hoping there was not a serious injury.  “I’m fine,” Sam said, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Then it happened: three drops of rich crimson blood hit the cardboard packaging of the guitar.

I sprung into action: perhaps this was the opportunity to redeem myself after my less-than-supportive behavior the last time we had a Christmas hand injury.  Sam and I rushed to the kitchen sink and rinsed the cut off with cool water to examine the damage.  It was more than a nick.  It was a pretty big cut, but it didn’t appear to be too deep.  We considered whether the injury warranted a trip to the ER.  We decided that it would be okay to just clean it up and bandage it at home.

We got Sam all patched up, finished opening the guitar, and everything seemed fine.  See?  This is Sam just a few minutes after the accident.  Everything was fine.

Sometime in the night as the Chardonnay haze wore off, Sam decided that everything was NOT fine, and in the morning she asked Dad drive her to the ER to have the wound checked out.  When I heard this I felt terrible!  Causing one major hand injury on Christmas Eve was bad enough, but now the gift I’d given to my nephew had caused a second round of Christmas carnage.

Four stitches later, Sam was all patched up.  Or so we thought.  After Sam and her son returned home a few days later, she went to have her stitches removed.  This should have been a quick, simple affair.  Needless to say, it wasn’t.  The doctor determined that Sam had actually severed tendons in her hand and surgery would be needed to reconnect them.  All this from a measly pocket knife cut!

The damage is still painfully obvious.  While the surgery was successful, Sam’s hand is still in a splint.  Everyday tasks like putting hair in a ponytail, fastening jeans, and even opening the bottle of prescription pain meds have become insurmountable tasks.

I feel terrible about directly or indirectly causing two Christmas ER trips for my dear little sister.  One thing is certain: we will always have great Christmas stories to tell our family and friends.

The moral of the story:

If you end up spending Christmas with me in the future, be warned.  Ridiculous, unexpected injuries may happen at any time.  Your best defense against such bad fortune?  WEAR MITTENS!

 

Update:

I have just been reminded that it actually wasn’t me who gave the toy guitar.  I’d had it in my hand at the store, and ultimately decided on a toy motorcycle instead.  Then it just so happened that my Dad gave him the same toy guitar I had almost purchased.  So we can blame Injury #2 on Dad instead of me!!

Phew.  Off the hook