I am here to recount the tale of how my husband smashed his index fingertip almost beyond repair, and how the kind folks over at the Urgent Care extra Las Vegas promised to tell anyone who asked it was a run of the mill slammed car door accident. That is not what happened at all, of course; what actually occurred is far, far more amusing. (Despite my husband’s current insistence to the contrary, I know that this will be a hilarious story told at family dinners years from now. It can’t help but be.)
My husband had inherited an old hand-crafted cuckoo clock from his grandfather several years earlier. We had kept it in the garage, as the internal mechanisms needed fixing and he kept swearing he’d get around to it eventually. Well, a week ago he finally did fix it, and we moved it into our bedroom until we could decide where in the house we wanted to hang it.
The first night of this story, the cuckoo clock came ticking and blaring its odd little cuckoo noise out of the clock at midnight; we got up with a groan and a sigh and turned the mechanism off. That morning my husband fixed it so that it would not go off at midnight. So we thought. For the next six nights, the clock went off like, well, clockwork, again and again, right at midnight.
On the seventh night, after a particularly long and grueling day at work, plus a sick kid that had to be hauled off to the Urgent Care extra Las Vegas for diagnosing of the flu, my husband collapsed into bed with the anticipation of sleeping like the dead who have earned their eternal rest. Until—you guessed it. The clock. Went off, as it always did. In a blind, mostly-asleep rage, he jumped out of bed, lifted the clock with the vengeance of a slightly confused but entirely justified god of destruction, and brought it down on the desk with a great CRASH of wood and gears… and a highly undignified, somewhat ladylike shriek of pain from him.
In his haze of sleep, he had not just smashed the clock down onto the desk—he had smashed his finger down onto the desk, rapidly followed by the offending clock. It was a wreck, black in seconds and disturbingly bent at the tip. I hustled him into the car and we made the trip to the Urgent Care extra Las Vegas for the second time that day, this time to take care of my entirely sulky and chagrined husband.
It took a couple of tries to explain to the nurse what exactly had happened, and I did my level best not to let a peep of laughter out under his baleful glare. She ordered a few x-rays for his smushed finger, set the tip of the bone best she could—most finger breaks take basic splinting and luck to heal as it is—and wrapped it up tightly, swearing to never tell a soul what had really happened.
The next day we told our kids he’d smashed it in the car door getting out on his way home from work, and nary a word was said about the incident since. I’ll let him decide when he wants to pull that epic tale out of his back pocket for recounting on his own.