Smoke signals in footsore foolery

THE thin trail of blood trickled neatly from a jagged cut in my left gumboot. At my feet a chainsaw, still smoking, growled like a pig-dog chuffed with itself.

I switched it off, removed earmuffs and steeled myself for whatever horror lay inside the boot.

I’ll spare readers the specifics. Suffice to say the chainsaw had eaten through a few centimetres of flesh before bouncing off bone in the instep— all in the time it takes to blink. I have no idea how it happened. Halfway through a length of macrocarpa the saw met something it didn’t like and kicked sideways at full noise.

Unfortunately my kids were home. My wife turned ghostly white as she ran across the lawn towards me. I shielded the trauma from her, thinking she was pale enough.

With the kids in mind, and to her eternal credit, she was wise enough to find me a red-coloured towel to disguise the blood.

In the car to hospital, bound foot up on the dash, I decided there was little use in fretting. So in an attempt to further fool the kids (and perhaps myself) I started singing nursery rhymes. As the pain came in waves during the seven-minute trip an unlikely scenario played out: ‘‘The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .’’

After fetching a wheelchair a nurse tugged gently at the towel, then hesitated:

‘‘If I unwrap this is your foot going to fall off?’’ ‘‘I sincerely hope not.’’ It was the first of many humorous exchanges during my one and only admission to Hawke’s Bay Hospital’s emergency department. I’ve raved about the care ever since. Staff were nothing short of brilliant— efficient, sensitive, knowledgeable and, most importantly, easy to have confidence in. Consummate professionals. And funny. Funny when I shamefully told them I was wearing only gumboots; funny when pushing an IV needle into my hand; funny when burying their fingers in the wound and even funnier when scrubbing it free of chain-bar oil and sawdust with what looked like a nail brush.

One young nurse kindly obliged when I asked her to take various grotesque photographs of the injury with my cellphone.

In morphine heaven I texted the photos to friends, whom I’m sure were stoked to receive such pictures at work in the middle of the day. Acolleague replied saying one aspect of the shot would scar him for life: ‘‘Trim your toenails you cretin (sic)’’.

ED staff continually told me how ‘‘lucky’’ I was. Glass half-full logic, I guess. I mean, there’s scarce luck to be found in freak accidents.

I pen this grisly yarn not to put anyone off Monday’s breakfast, (apologies if it’s too late), but for two reasons.

One because I’ve always wanted to say a big thank-you to the emergency department. Not many former patients are in the privileged position to spout gushing praise in such a wide forum.

Secondly, I felt inclined to write this as a riposte to the recent public howling about hospital staff seen smoking on their breaks. Nothing, it seems, gets the public howling quicker than the whiff of hypocrisy.

But I’ll let you into a little secret. When I next picked up a snarling chainsaw my feet were again clad only in gumboots. So I’m an idiot. In full knowledge of what carnal damage chainsaws can inflict, I still wear non-protective shoes. I believe it’s the literal definition of insanity.

Smoking hospital staff are no different. Theirs is a clear case of the cobbler’s shoes.

Despite endeavouring to improve others’ well-being, many choose to light up every smoko. I say leave them alone. These folk work in the most stressful, modestly paid and thankless industry on the planet.

And besides, when did it become mandatory for health professionals to be healthy professionals? Does lack of fitness preclude fitness to practise?

In fact, you could easily argue the flipside. That is, I have serious trust issues with skinny chefs.

If I had a dodgy ticker due to obesity I’d choose an overweight, wheezing, yak-like cardiologist whose armpits became soaked simply by taking my blood pressure.

Wegrace hospitals to seek medical advice— not role models. It might defy belief that professionals who hear, smell, touch and see firsthand the putrid symptoms caused by smoking aren’t put off the habit. But, given that counterintuitive scenario, insisting hospital employees cease puffing for the sake of appearances becomes as ludicrous as wielding a chainsaw in gumboots. Now there’s a cobbler in serious need

of new shoes.