If you are a faithful reader of this blog you should seek help from a mental health professional, and you may recall that my wife and I own a hunting ranch in the Texas hill country. Or it owns us. I am not really sure. We go out there. We work like dogs to keep the place up, and then drive home. This is not a hobby for the faint of heart or for someone who actually likes to enjoy their leisure time.
The last time we were at the ranch we discovered that the toilet in the guest bathroom was broken. The water in it must have frozen last winter and broke the ceramic bowl. I brought with us a new toilet to replace it. (Not really new, of course. This is an old one from my house where I installed an actual new one. I am too big a cheap-scape to buy a new toilet for the Hill Country house) Let me say right here that I hate replacing toilets. I have six rent houses and two of my own houses. So over the years I have had to repair or replace lots of toilets. There is nothing more awkward to work on than a toilet, unless it is working under a sink. OK, I hate working under a sink even more than working on a toilet.
To get the toilet back in to operation, I needed to re-use the tank. But I could not get the tank bolts loose from the old bowl. They were all rusted up. I decided to use a hammer and break the bowl where the bolts were attached. I think I recall seeing this technique in a PBS television show called "This old crappy ranch house". The hammer technique worked. I broke the bowl, pulled off the tank and installed it on the new (OK, used bowl). The replacement toilet installed easily. Why is it I hate this job, again?
OK, so the toilet was installed. All I had to do was take the toilet seat off of the broken bowl. But when I grabbed the old bowl I badly sliced my index finger on the sharp edge of the broken ceramic. I had no idea that the ceramic would be that sharp. The ancient Aztec Indians, rather than using obsidian to make knives, should have just broken pieces off their toilets. My index finger looked like it was cut to the bone. It was pouring red liquid out like I had spilled a bottle of Big Red soda.
I wrapped my hand in a towel and my wife drove me to town. She found the Doctor’s office which was just off the town square. Dr. Todd is 75 and still practicing medicine. He took me in to the back, shooed the chickens off the examination table and took a look at my finger. Of course, I knew that it was just barely dangling on with only 98% of my poor finger still attached, so I was hesitant to unwrap it. He calmly asked me if I really needed that finger. I said “It comes in handy for picking my nose”. He said “OK, I can save it”.
He scrubbed it and shot it full of pain killer. (someone should invent a pain killer that does not hurt when going in). Then I held a flashlight for him as he delicately sutured the cut. He put five stitches in my finger. I had never seen this done before. All the other times I have gotten stitches, they have been in my head, so I never saw the procedure. Dr. Todd was a master at stitchery. He put cute little bows and curly cues on my stitches. I think he spelled out “Jesus Saves”. Then he gave me a tetanus shot and anti-biotics and told me to come back to his house in the morning to get the dressing changed.
They don’t make old time country doctors like him anymore. He doesn’t take credit cards and has his patients come to his house when he is not working at the office. I told my wife that the Dr. said that as a result of my injury I could never do dishes again or install any more toilets. It was just too risky. And he even wrote me a prescription for taking naps and getting back rubs. What a great Doctor!
I am sure I am on the road to a full recover, but I plan to milk this injury to the fullest. I am relaxing as I watch my wife clean the floors and do housework. I wish I could help, but I can’t risk going against Dr.s Orders. I should have thought of this scam years ago. I have nine more fingers that have room for stitches. And I think it is time for my physician directed nap.
The last time we were at the ranch we discovered that the toilet in the guest bathroom was broken. The water in it must have frozen last winter and broke the ceramic bowl. I brought with us a new toilet to replace it. (Not really new, of course. This is an old one from my house where I installed an actual new one. I am too big a cheap-scape to buy a new toilet for the Hill Country house) Let me say right here that I hate replacing toilets. I have six rent houses and two of my own houses. So over the years I have had to repair or replace lots of toilets. There is nothing more awkward to work on than a toilet, unless it is working under a sink. OK, I hate working under a sink even more than working on a toilet.
To get the toilet back in to operation, I needed to re-use the tank. But I could not get the tank bolts loose from the old bowl. They were all rusted up. I decided to use a hammer and break the bowl where the bolts were attached. I think I recall seeing this technique in a PBS television show called "This old crappy ranch house". The hammer technique worked. I broke the bowl, pulled off the tank and installed it on the new (OK, used bowl). The replacement toilet installed easily. Why is it I hate this job, again?
OK, so the toilet was installed. All I had to do was take the toilet seat off of the broken bowl. But when I grabbed the old bowl I badly sliced my index finger on the sharp edge of the broken ceramic. I had no idea that the ceramic would be that sharp. The ancient Aztec Indians, rather than using obsidian to make knives, should have just broken pieces off their toilets. My index finger looked like it was cut to the bone. It was pouring red liquid out like I had spilled a bottle of Big Red soda.
I wrapped my hand in a towel and my wife drove me to town. She found the Doctor’s office which was just off the town square. Dr. Todd is 75 and still practicing medicine. He took me in to the back, shooed the chickens off the examination table and took a look at my finger. Of course, I knew that it was just barely dangling on with only 98% of my poor finger still attached, so I was hesitant to unwrap it. He calmly asked me if I really needed that finger. I said “It comes in handy for picking my nose”. He said “OK, I can save it”.
He scrubbed it and shot it full of pain killer. (someone should invent a pain killer that does not hurt when going in). Then I held a flashlight for him as he delicately sutured the cut. He put five stitches in my finger. I had never seen this done before. All the other times I have gotten stitches, they have been in my head, so I never saw the procedure. Dr. Todd was a master at stitchery. He put cute little bows and curly cues on my stitches. I think he spelled out “Jesus Saves”. Then he gave me a tetanus shot and anti-biotics and told me to come back to his house in the morning to get the dressing changed.
They don’t make old time country doctors like him anymore. He doesn’t take credit cards and has his patients come to his house when he is not working at the office. I told my wife that the Dr. said that as a result of my injury I could never do dishes again or install any more toilets. It was just too risky. And he even wrote me a prescription for taking naps and getting back rubs. What a great Doctor!
I am sure I am on the road to a full recover, but I plan to milk this injury to the fullest. I am relaxing as I watch my wife clean the floors and do housework. I wish I could help, but I can’t risk going against Dr.s Orders. I should have thought of this scam years ago. I have nine more fingers that have room for stitches. And I think it is time for my physician directed nap.
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