It may have been six weeks ago now when I was finishing up some work in my home office around 5:30 pm. The little angel was watching iCarly like she incessantly does now even though she has seen every episode on streaming Netflix at least six times. Beloved was making dinner. Homemade french fries, to be exact. With a mandoline slicer that looked something like this.

I heard some obscenities, but quiet ones.

"What's up, babe?"

"I cut myself. Bad."

"Do you need to get stitches?"

"Yup."

I swear. I can't believe how calm the conversation was. I turned off the TV and stuffed a baffled little angel in the car as he went back into the house to grab a rag, which he wrapped around his pinkie finger.

I drove him to urgent care. When we walked in, I told the receptionist he was bleeding.

She looked at him. "Can you see bone?"

He nodded.

HE NODDED.

My mouth dropped open. They took him in the back behind a curtain, where they pronounced it too serious for urgent care.

At this point, I was really trying not to vomit and totally glad he hadn't shown it to me. And I was also getting pretty concerned about the pain that would kick in at any minute when the shock wore off.

Back in the car, I drove to the closest emergency room, which was packed to the gills with coughing people who looked like they'd been there for hours. He sat down, and I put a piece of paper in a black box, which seemed like quite possibly the most archaic method of telling someone your husband had sliced his finger off known to man.

I thought about giving him Advil, but dude, what if they gave him narcotics later? So I didn't. Argh.

By 6:30, the little angel was starving and Beloved insisted I take her to get something to eat. I poked my head back in the back, where the nurse eyed me disdainfully. "My husband is still bleeding," I said. Aren't ERs supposed to triage Massive Headwound Harry? Seems like every time I take the little angel to the ER for an ear infection, we get in line behind people currently losing platelets.

As I opened the door to go outside, the skies opened up with a downpour. So I ran to the car while the little angel stood under the overhang. I am not kidding, by the time I got to the car, I was literally able to ring out my t-shirt. I am telling you, this experience was fun for everyone involved.

We drove home, and I made three things of Easy Mac. In the car. Back to the ER. This time I brought reading material.

Still there at 8:30, when Beloved insisted I take the little angel home and give her a bath. So I did. And we went back when he texted and said he was behind the curtain. By the time they released him, it was around 10 pm and he had four internal stitches and four external stitches and an open wound because apparently he had lost the tip of his finger. Actually, I think I lost it, because the first time I came home, I put all the potatoes down the garbage disposal and threw away the evil slicer and most likely PART OF MY HUSBAND'S THUMB.

So that was like six weeks ago. Every time we go to the pool, he has to wear what I swear looks like a finger condom.

Yet another product I didn't know existed.

Practice safe showering.

I could go on.

As the finger healed, the open wound grew shut and this crazy hood of dead skin started separating from the new finger. It was like he was molting. I was watching the entire series of Battlestar Gallactica during this process, and let me tell you, I was all this is how the cylons evolved. Totally creepy yet fascinating and really a miracle -- the healing process is pretty amazing.

Then the other night, it either fell off or he cut it off but he didn't tell me and I really don't want to know.

But it's almost healed. And now that pinkie is almost perfectly square at the top and a few millimeters shorter than the other pinkie.

So I bought him these.

He wore them last night. Chop, chop!

The end.