Spading Myself

Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement

SPADING MYSELF

This is not what you may be thinking after hearing this subheading. It has nothing to do with spaying, but with the common potato pitchfork, which is sometimes called a garden spade. It's like a regular pitchfork you may think of from the farm, but these pitchforks are used to harvest potatoes without too much damage, and they are excellent for loosening up compacted ground. The tines are about as big around as a finger.

I had used this particular tool for several years, and in fact had worn out several handles of past potato pitchforks. They are just too handy for loosening the ground around stubborn weeds. It works like this.

The spading pitchfork is just light enough that I can lift it up to my shoulders while sitting on the ground and thrust it into the ground in front of me with enough force to get the tines into the ground several inches. Usually I stab the ground where the weeds need pulling, and after moving the handle a bit, the ground is loose; the roots are loose, and with a simple pulling motion, a section of weeds is no more.

I have developed special muscles across my back and in my arms after stabbing this tool into the ground thousands of times every summer. I even stabbed myself in the palm once, and I think it needed three stitches. This first injury happened when a grape vine had deflected my aim for the ground, and the tines of the fork were sharp enough after the thousands of times it had penetrated dirt that it really was as sharp as a knife. The metal on the tines glows a bright silvery color from the constant sanding by the soil. But even this slight wound in my hand didn't stop me from continuing to use the potato pitchfork as my designated tool of weed elimination.

My daughter was getting married in the late summer and wanted to use our backyard for the reception. I had been slaving away trying to make the place look its best, and that included weeding where I hadn't for a few years. It was the opening night of the play "Cinderella" at the Sundance Outdoor Theatre. I was being paid to play the father of the prince, and had the unique opportunity to appear onstage in a dinner jacket, a cravat, white boxer shorts, tall black socks and slippers, reading a newspaper and ignoring my son.

That's right. I was to appear onstage with no pants. The fly of the boxer shorts had been sewn shut, and I was wearing something else under them just in case, but I guess it's time to admit that if money is involved and it's not immoral, I will probably do it. This would also explain when I picked my nose in another commercial for $300.00.

But I digress. We had been let out of rehearsal early and I knew that once the play started I would be very tired in the daytime and would probably not get much weeding done. So I determined to get some of the worst weeding over before the show that night and that included a patch where some planting pots had been sitting for a few years with seedlings in them. This had allowed the dandelions and other long-rooted weeds to really gain a foothold.

I really like working in the yard. I sell plants from my yard on EBay, and shipped over 600 packages of various plant material in the last 6 months. Mostly these are plants that are growing in the wrong place and I would be weeding them anyway, so when I pull them up I place them in a plastic bag with some loose dirt and add a little water. I seal them up and mail them on their merry way.

The best example of this is what some people call horse mint, which is really catnip. It grows in various places all over the yard, and when I see some and have sold some, I yank it up and instead of throwing it away, I turn it into cash. Even the groundcover that I sell is usually the stuff that is growing outside of the prescribed area where I want it to grow. Then it is a weed, and would probably be thrown away or burned anyway. Instead, it becomes money. It's a fun way to do the weeding in the yard.

Which brings me back to the stabbing. I have half an acre of land, and it takes most of my student-free summers to keep it under control. I can spend up to three or four hours a day in the yard and still not get done all I want to.

So when I weed, it is with a passion and energy of someone that knows it is time to get this done, and done right, and get on to other stuff. I am an intense weeder.

So there I sat in the long weeds which have had three years to grow extra deep roots. I am sitting on the ground with my spading pitchfork in my left hand, stabbing at the ground furiously and pulling the offending plants out with my right hand.

Except when they won't come out.

This weeding system works well when the plants are coming out easily. There is a problem if the weed refuses to be pulled out on the first try. This is when I usually take the top of the noxious weed in my hand, and grabbing it firmly, stab yet again with the sharpened tool of steel.

It usually works. The roots get loose and the weed comes out. But not this time.

I stabbed a little too close to my hand.

This is usually not a problem, since the blade often deflects off my hand and goes into the ground.

I was stabbing the ground so hard because the weeds were so stubborn that the blade stabbed my hand instead.

The outer tine of the pitchfork went into my right hand just above my right thumb, almost to my wrist. The blade was so sharp that it sped right under the skin and then emerged from the first joint of my thumb. Where the last knuckle of the thumb bends in, I now had a sharp steel blade sticking out of my hand about four inches.

I had really stabbed hard.

It hadn't really hurt, which I have found from extensive personal experience is usually the case with a severe injury. It did sting a bit, and the cut was clean - no blood was coming out.

In fact, the blade was firmly entrenched in my hand and as I gently tried to pull and push it a bit, my skin only moved with it. There was no blood channel like in fencing swords to allow blood to escape, and allow the stabber to extricate his blade from the stabee.

I held the blade and my hand up to the open air and admired the clean incision. I looked like one of those Freddy Krueger movies, except the blade wasn't attached to my glove; it was running through my thumb.

Time seems to stand still in these kinds of moments. I remember several different and bizarre kinds of thoughts.

Being a performer at heart and knowing I had an opening night to face later, the first words I muttered were not curses or shouts of pain. They were "Crap, I have a show tonight."

The next phrase emerged after I examined the sliced skin near my wrist. I said out loud, "Well, that only looks like 5 or 6 stitches." I had enough hands-on (!) sewing experience to know how many stitches the doctor would use.

Then two conflicting thoughts entered my mind, and I swear this is what actually happened next. I was wondering about the emergency room, but another thought crossed my mind immediately. There was going to be a wedding in this yard next month. The wheelbarrow was still sitting on the lawn, and I realized I would probably not get back to weeding for a few days. I knew I would forget to move the wheelbarrow and it would leave a big yellow mark right in the middle of the lawn.

That simply would not do. I tucked the handle of the spading pitchfork under my arm, with the blade still protruding from my hand. It was a little painful, but I endured so I could get that stupid wheelbarrow off the lawn.

I took the two handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, a little painfully, and moved it off the lawn to the weedy patch. I kid you not. I was more worried about the lawn at this moment than the wound.

Then the other thought crowded back. I knew that the emergency room people would probably not want me to pull the tines of the pitchfork back through my hand as it would get infected. But I also knew that they would probably cut the tine off and slide it out the front of my hand. This would destroy a perfectly good spading pitchfork. I chose infection over a ruined tool.

I also had another thought as a walked over to the cement step which leads up to the patio. I could see myself arriving at the emergency room and proudly waving my arm above me and saying, "I got a potato pitchfork stuck in my hand! Can you get it out?"

I could visualize winning the "Emergency Room's Stupidest Patient" video contest, with the host playing the video over and over again imitating my voice and intoning, "Can you get it out? Can you get it out?"

It was only a few steps to the concrete step, and by the time I arrived and had played out the above scenario out in my mind several times, I was determined to get that blade out of my hand.

I put the unencumbered tines on the step and hung my hand off the side. The goal was to do this in one motion, much like yanking off a bandage. I pulled hesitantly and confirmed the holding power of steel against flesh - it felt like it was super-glued to my hand.

So I knew it would take a mighty yank to get this off my hand, and I would probably only be able to endure the pain of one attempt.

So I threw my weight into it, and locked my arm and slid the hand down and off the blade. It still didn't really hurt so bad I couldn't stand it, but for the next part I was unprepared.

The blade was off, but now two gaping holes in my hand started to pour out blood. I'm not very good with blood, even though I have a fairly high pain threshold. Especially if it is my blood.

A wave of nausea swept over me and for the first time I felt like I was going to faint. I got lightheaded and doubted that I would be able to make it up the patio stairs to the phone. A mental image washed over me -- my dead body collapsed at the base of the stairs with people standing over me shaking their heads and muttering, "Another senseless potato pitchfork death."

Blood was pooling everywhere, and I somehow made it up the stairs and opened the back door. I went to the kitchen sink and rinsed out the dirt as best I could, relishing the feel of the cold water on my flesh which seemed to be searing with heat.

I grabbed the dishtowel next to the stove and wrapped my hand up several times. I stumbled to the phone, dialed 911 and lay down on the floor.

When the operator answered and asked what was the nature of my emergency, I told her I had stabbed myself and thought I might pass out. The good news about land line phones is that they already have your address when you call. We had a man die here locally when he was called 911 on a cell phone and they couldn't find him.

The emergency operator assured me that she knew where I was, and was sending an ambulance. I told her that I would be lying in a pool of blood at the top of the stairs. I told her to tell the EMT to just come in the front door and walk upstairs. She was very comforting and kept me calm, and as I looked over at my hand, I realized I really was lying in a pool of blood.

The ambulance driver came in and took great care of me, not even laughing when I told him what had happened. He wrapped up my hand into a softball sized mound of gauze and I limped to the ambulance under my own power. Some people from the neighborhood were standing outside wondering what I had done this time, and as I emerged, I waved my giant wrapped hand at them and said I was okay. "I stabbed myself," I think I said.

I had discussed the emergency room with the EMT. I knew that if I went to the emergency room I would be late for my opening night performance. And my doctor was only four blocks down the street.

Somehow I convinced him to deposit me at the doctor's office. I'm guessing this is not standard operating procedure since they were very hesitant to let me do it, but when I insisted they walked me gingerly all the way back into the room where I would be worked on. Then they had me sign a release saying this is where I wanted to be and that I wouldn't sue them later for not taking good care of me.

I was also worried what Debbie would think when she came home and saw the blood all over the kitchen floor, but luckily my daughter Aleesa was driving up to our house when she saw me being taken away in an ambulance. Devoted daughter that she is, she followed us to the doctor's office and came right in the door.

When she saw that I was all right she asked if there was anything she could do. I asked if she wouldn't mind going to the house and cleaning up the blood on the floor. And the blood leading to the sink. And maybe the blood on the back porch. And the steps. She said she would without hesitating, and my wife was spared the sight of a bloody kitchen.

Dr. Wylie has no sympathy for my self-inflicted injuries since he usually has several at one time himself. He does rock-climbing and helicopter skiing, so we usually compare scars and stories, and I get little pity.

He went right to work, irrigating the three-inch long wound which ran just under my skin. The blade had bounced off the muscle and sinew in my hand and cruised nicely just beneath the skin to emerge at the top of my thumb. He washed it several times, but didn't sound too hopeful that we were getting all of the dirt out.

It was after all, a spading pitchfork which was often covered in dirt, and some of it had to stay under my skin. I didn't bother telling him that this particular area had once been used as a kennel by the previous owners. I guess I thought he would send me to the hospital, and I had a performance to get to.

I was right. It was six stitches on the top and three on the bottom, accompanied by a large dose of antibiotics (again). By this time I had started to feel some of the pain, but only took some ibuprofen so I wouldn't be dulled for the show that night.

He sent me on my merry way, and I made it to the call up at Sundance only about 30 minutes late. The transparent bandage on my hand wouldn't show on stage, and after showing my injuries to the cast and the directors, I was excused for being a little late. Stabbing yourself and getting nine stitches can get you excused for being slow, but don't try this at home.

To add insult to injury, I went to the vocal director and showed him my new scars. He wasn't too pleased with me being in the show anyway since I didn't have the strongest voice in the cast. I told him I didn't think I could sing that night, and he turned to me and actually said, "Could you please not sing?" I said yes, of course.

It wasn't my best opening night, but as I mouthed the words to the finale right next to audience members that night, they may have wondered why they couldn't hear this guy sing even when he was standing three feet away. I just looked at my hand and pretended to sing even louder.

When the choral director found out how lousy my voice really was, I was fired for the rest of the season. I was supposed to sing with Maureen McGovern and Christopher Lloyd in two later shows, but untrained singer that I am, I think they made the right choice. It did give me more time to get the backyard ready for the wedding. I spent the extra time stabbing at weeds with my perfectly intact spading pitchfork instead of feeling sorry for myself.

I wasn't out of the woods yet. The dirt and germs I had pulled back under my skin didn't all get flushed away, and I got an incredible infection from the wound. My arm from my elbow down began to turn black and blue, and when I showed it to the doctor two days later, he said it wasn't bruising but a raging infection.

He told me to keep taking the antibiotic pills I was taking and then went to the supply closet for a catheter. He hooked up this semi-permanent antibiotic delivery system and taped it right into the bend of my elbow. For those who have been paying attention, having needles close to me is worse than any horror flick you can name. He jabbed that giant needle into the skin and then taped it to my arm.

Getting a bag of antibiotics, he indicated we would have to do this twice a day for a few days until the infection was under control. Dr. Wylie isn't someone to mess around. When he sees a problem he deals with it right then, and doesn't take any hostages. The liquid ran into my system quickly, and then he took the bag away.

And left the needle in my arm.

As I sat staring at the needled delivery system, Dr. Wylie must have read my mind. He's heard me talk about my needle phobia enough. He said to me in his most patient and calming bedside manner, "Come back this afternoon and we'll give you some more. Let's leave the catheter in until we get this under control."

I concealed my panic. I was going to be walking around for a few days with a NEEDLE stuck perpetually into my skin. I really am a baby about this, and I am so hypersensitive about needles that I claim I can always feel the needle in my skin as long as it is there.

Logically, I know this can't be true. My body has endured enough pain to adjust quite quickly to most ailments, but I'm phobic enough to think I can feel a needle.

I was actually quite proud that I didn't faint right there in the office. I rose without fear to face several days with a needle in my arm 24/7, and left the office wondering if anyone could see the internal conflict I was experiencing. Was my face fixed into a constant grimace of pain? Or was the stoic face of resignation being presented to the world?

I actually performed a couple of shows with a needle sticking into my arm. It sounds like a trial, but realistically, I did forget every once in a while that there was a needle there. Until I moved my arm in a weird direction and a stabbing pain reminded me that I was enduring this only because I had stabbed myself earlier in the week. At that point all you can do is shrug your shoulders and think to yourself, "This too shall pass." And it does.

It was kind of cool to be able to show people the catheter, until I had to tell them the whole story about why I needed twice a day antibiotics. Then instead of feeling your pain with you, the begin to smile and wonder how a guy like me has managed to survive this long on a planet with so many sharp edges.

The only permanent damage from stabbing my hand Freddy Krueger-like is that I have two distinctive scars on my right thumb. One right on the top towards the wrist, and another just where the last knuckle bends under my thumb. I still use the potato pitchfork for gardening, but I am extra careful when stabbing at stubborn long-rooted weeds.

One more Dr. Wylie story deserves a painful revisit. I have inherited skin tabs from someone in my family, and I suspect it was probably my grandfather on my mother's side. Grandpa Hale had skin tabs all over his face near his eyes. It was really disturbing, and when I discovered them occurring on my face near my eyes, I decided to have them removed on a regular basis.

Dr. Wylie is pretty adventurous, but he enjoys this particular treatment way too much. To remove a skin tab, which is just extra skin gathered into a little protrusion, Dr. Wylie gets out his liquid nitrogen gun. He puts a little liquid nitrogen in this little evil device, charges it with a little air pressure, and goes to work with an evil grin.

Shooting liquid nitrogen onto bare skin through a little tiny hole feels just like - you guessed it - someone shoving thousands of tiny needles into your skin. There is no anesthetic involved, so you get the full effect of thousands of tiny needles undulled.

At least I don't have to see any needles; I only have to feel like there are the tiniest needles in creation all stabbing me at once.

I have to endure this unique torture every few years when new skin tabs appear, and when Dr. Wiley sees me coming, I think he is always looking for another adventure with his little gun. How often do you get chance to shoot liquid nitrogen onto someone's face and get paid for it?

After the treatments the skin turns black from the exposure to subzero temperatures and within a week the skin tab falls off. Within a couple of weeks the skin returns to normal.

I wonder why they say "Vanity, thy name is woman." It seems pretty vain to me to endure this kind of torture just so I don't have little flaps of skin next to my eyes.

Not all self-inflicted injuries lead to visible damage, or at least no permanent physical scar. After the spading fork incident, I really tried to be careful; after all, we had a wedding coming up in the backyard and I wanted to be present but not the focus of attention. My oldest daughter could do without comments like "Did you know he stabbed himself in the hand and they had to amputate his arm?" It really only took 5 or 6 twice daily infusions of antibiotic to clear up the infection, so I was feeling great. I don't know why I feel especially good after a round of antibiotics, but it's usually not worth the trouble I have to get into to get the injections. Or the pills. I really don't know how many rounds of antibiotics I've had in my life, but I think it may be above fifteen. Or maybe twenty.

The wedding went fine, and I didn't limp up the aisle with a broken foot, hand, or leg. Aleesa was beautiful and the work had been worth the pain. It's not very often you get to give your daughter away to her husband in your own backyard surrounded by family and friends, so the occasion was especially sweet.

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