Nailing the Injury

I can become hyper-focused, ignoring my surroundings as one thought monopolizes all available grey matter. Out of neurological gear, my mind idles on the berm of life as the rest of the world speeds past. During such cerebral free spinning moments, time advances whilst I concentrate on a single bit of minutiae. This inattentiveness can result in bodily injury. One such incident happened when my family moved to Ohio.

Being the first residents in our neighborhood meant the surrounding houses were still under construction well after we unpacked. Abundant dirt mounds and half-finished structures beckoned me with promises of discovery this six-year-old couldn’t resist. Once the workers knocked off for the day, my explorations began. I rationalized it’s not trespassing if it’s not occupied.

Mom and Dad defined the Rules of Conduct while on my suburban safaris:

1) Watch where you’re stepping.

2) No vandalism/stealing

3) Don’t get hurt.

I agree to these reasonable terms and begin my adventures.

One muddy afternoon, my older sister accompanied me to survey the progress on the house next door, one I had frequented since it was a skeletal frame. Near completion, we compare its layout to our house with the hope whoever moves in has kids our age.

The reconnaissance mission finishes as suppertime nears. Having the tendency to drop whatever’s in their hands at the end of the shift, the workers leave behind a bonus obstacle course of building materials. Aware of these hazards, we are vigilant of where we’re stepping and weave around the rubble strewn across the floors. Joan and I navigate a path towards the doorless entry without incident.

Hopping over the last piece of debris, I lead the way down the wooden ramp connecting the threshold with the barren yard. Confident it’s gotten me out of the interior peril zone, the portion of mind responsible for safety disengages. It goes inactive so the section dedicated to food can check in and take the con. My thought shifts from danger to dinner. I build up speed down the incline. As I transition onto the ground, I’m obsessed over supper.

With my focus on eating, all other input, even that which isn’t necessarily frivolous, is ignored. So, the visual information regarding the piece of wood lying ahead is not received. The potential for harm is not conveyed because my attention is on if we’ll have meatloaf tonight. No evasive action is taken because I’m looking forward to the accompanying mashed potatoes if meatloaf is indeed the entrée. Lacking a directive to avoid it, my legs continue their course straight toward the lumber.

I plant my left foot hard and fast on the obvious board. So hard and fast that I didn’t feel the penetration of the nail sticking up from the wood. Another detail not realized due to my dinner preoccupation. The exposed nail is driven through my boot, shoe, sock and into my sole. My right foot completes its sequential step as planned, oblivious to the impalement its companion has experienced.

When I pick up my left foot, the board tags along. This hinders my gait. Stumbling jolts my mind, putting dinner on the back burner. My body dispatches the appropriate impulses which my brain now acknowledges. Collapsing to the ground, I emit a scream of pain followed by tears of regret. I just broke rules #1 and #3 of the suburban safari edicts. Individually, they could result in the suspension of future outings. Combined, they could result in a permanent ban on future outings. And there’s no way to hide a mistake like this.

Without her stride impeded by an unyielding 2x4, my sister quickly closes the gap. Being older and wiser, she knows the needed course of action - Jettison the attachment, get me home, emphasize it wasn’t her fault and let Mom deal with this medical emergency.

Joan approaches from behind, grabs under my arms and lifts me. She then simultaneously steps on both ends of the board and yanks my body upward. My introduction to the plank is accidental and unnoticed. My parting is deliberate and jarring. Joan drags me the remaining way to our front door.

As we burst into the house, Mom is already responding to my wails and Joan’s pleas for help. I’m escorted into the kitchen to begin triage. She peels off the layers of footwear to survey the damage. When my sock is removed, I take a break from sobbing to glance down at the injury. I expect a crimson geyser spewing forth like an open hydrant. But there’s no gushing blood, just an oozing hole in my heel.

I don’t remember going to a doctor. I’m sure I did. This isn’t something a dab of Mercurochrome and a Band-Aid could fix. Probably got a tetanus shot and antibiotics to stave off whatever late 1960’s infection was rampant then. I don’t even think I was bedridden for any length of time. The post-traumatic events are hazy. Out of embarrassment, or guilt, my brain didn’t archive the recovery since its absence caused the mishap in the first place.

By the time I was ambulatory again, the houses were finished and occupied. The possibility of future harm was eliminated because uninvited entry into occupied dwellings is illegal. However, the ability to ignore my surroundings and inflict personal damage carried over and is still strong to this day.