The Fireman Who Saved My Finger

The Fireman Who Saved My Finger

What’s a girl to do when her finger is turning blue?

Photo by Edgar Soto on Unsplash

Ten years ago, my ring finger started turning a Smurf color blue. I had been hoping this day would never come, but it did. A few years back, I noticed that my wedding band was getting tighter. Sure, I had gained a little weight since we were married, but did it all have to go to my hips and ring finger?

Now with my new friend Arthur- I-tis the knuckles on my fingers spread out resembling tree burls. No more pretty hands, just stumpy, fat digits.

I tried to pull my ring off, but it wouldn’t budge. My husband tried putting olive oil under the ring and knuckle, but all I got was smelling like Italian salad dressing.

My left hand looked like I had a blue crayon for my ring finger. It started to throb; I knew the ring had to come off or else I would be getting manicures for 9 fingers instead of 10. I wonder if they would charge me less?

I was all ready to go to the doctor and have the ring removed, but a friend of mine suggested I go to my local fire station, where a fireman would remove it for nothing. I didn’t believe her at first, but I thought I had nothing to lose. If I go to the firehouse and get laughed at for asking, I’ll know the doctor is my next stop.

So off I went, lugging my throbbing finger to the firehouse. I knocked on the door, and a nice-looking young fireman answered the door. I told him my predicament and showed him my finger. Without any other explanation, he told me to come in.

Inside the firehouse were three more firemen. It was like being in a candy store. They all had the same muscle-bound bodies, which were not bad on the eyes. The fire department shirts they wore fit snugly; what a tease that was. Even then, in my late 60s, I felt a little warm, and it wasn’t hot flashes.

They had me sit at the table as one of them gently looked at my finger. They all sympathized with me; I could have sat there all day listening to them fuss over me.

At first, one of them tried to pull it off using thread and a slippery solution. He wrapped the thread around the ring and tugged on it, no luck at all. After a group discussion, the only solution they came up with was cutting off the ring.

I still had shaky hands at the time from essential tremors, so it was decided that one of them would hold down my hand while another, with a tiny file, would file the ring off my finger. I loved the attention I was getting; it distracted me enough not to worry if my finger would be severed in the process. After several minutes, the ring was completely cut off, no skin included.

I felt so relieved that I blurted out, “Now I’m not married anymore!” All of the hunks backed away from me until I said I was kidding.

I made a donation to the fire department in recognition of their heroic efforts in saving my finger.

When I returned home, I showed my now ruined wedding band to my husband. I decided I wanted to replace it with a thin ring that was a little loose-fitting. I sold the ruined ring for its gold content and received $350. If I had saved the ring, it would have sat in a drawer. Better to get the cash and enjoy something with it. I bought a new backpacking tent with the money.

I was thinking they should make wedding rings with clasps so they’ll open up, and you can remove them without trying to get them over fat, arthritic knuckles.

But then there would be no need for a hunky fireman to hold your hand.