OMG I BROKE A NAIL!

Normally, when a first grader thinks of "Take Your Children To Work Day," they don’t typically imagine a life changing experience.

I was always disobedient as a child. Now don’t get me wrong, I did occasionally listen to my elders, but most times, I was overcome with a sense of stubborn defiance that generally tends to be seen in seven-year-olds. This defiance soon proved to be deadly… Well, sort of.

It was the first time I would be participating in the annual “skipping-school-without-getting-in-trouble day,” as I liked to call it, and I was thrilled. Going to work with my dad meant getting my hands dirty, (since he was a contractor) and I could not wait. On this day, he decided to take me to one of his easier jobs, which consisted of plumbing installment. We got to the house, and I followed him down the stairs, to the basement where we would be working. He got out his tools and I started walking around, scoping the place for cool hideouts, just in case we might happen to play a spontaneous game of hide and seek. I didn’t find any hideouts but instead a sledgehammer and some big rocks that I deemed worthy of smashing. My dad must have read my mind at that moment, because almost instantly after spotting my new adventure site, he told me to stay away from the hammer because I would hurt myself. Being the good little child that I was—note the sarcasm—I decided to place his warning in the furthest corner of my memory, and waited until he was immersed in his job to continue my plan. 

Walking towards the rocks, I picked up the sledgehammer. This proved difficult, due to the fact that the tool happened to be almost three-quarters of my height, and heavier than anticipated. Nevertheless, I grabbed the hammer and hauled it in the air, nearly bringing myself down in the process. I practiced the move a few more times, and finally brought down Rusty (that’s what I named it) onto a rock that I had previously laid out. Particles went flying and thanks to the loud drilling of the saw that my dad was using, the sound of the impact was drowned out, saving me from chastisement for a few more minutes. I lined up the next rock and took another swing. BOOM! The sound resonated throughout the room, or so I thought—my dad still hadn’t been able to hear the noise. I continued the routine until I had reached the very last rock, the one object in my path to accomplishing my version of total destruction.

I steadied myself, took a deep breath, lifted Rusty up, and swung. After I heard the familiar sound of the impact, I opened my eyes—which I had not known were closed—and looked at the destruction site. The rock was still in one piece. At this point, I was frustrated. I had not worked so hard to obliterate these pieces of broken concrete, just to give up at the final challenge. I huffed in annoyance, gripped Rusty, and heaved the hammer over my head, pouring all of my strength into the swing.

At the impact, I felt a sharp pain in my left index finger.

It felt as if I had scratched myself, because the pain was gone almost immediately. I disregarded the pain, since I had gotten scratches before, but I took a look at my finger anyways. I saw a single drop of blood right above my fingernail, and immediately screamed in agony, before the pain had actually begun. This scream had been the catalyst of what seemed like a blur of events. Almost immediately after my false proclamation of pain, my finger seemed to remember that blood meant “ouch”, and a surge of intense pain shot through my hand, settling its focus on my fingernail. The drop of blood enlarged, until it turned into a tiny stream trickling onto the floor. This triggered a chorus of screeching, which I had not realized was coming from my own mouth at the time.

It was as if time sped up. My vision became blurry and all I could remember was my Dad’s grip on my right arm, leading me somewhere, and then pulses of agonizing pain as I watched my father wash the blood away from my finger. Once the blood had slowed down, we both inspected the damage.

More than half of my fingernail, from cuticle to tip, was gone.

The sight was ghastly, and as I vainly tried to lessen my blubbering, the realization hit me. Half of my fingernail was gone. Half of my fingernail was gone! As the initial shock of the situation started to subside, I couldn’t help but think, So that’s what a finger looks like without a nail. Cool.

I eventually calmed down, after many consolation efforts, courtesy of my father. Since we both felt there was no need to go to the hospital, we made due with the emergency Band-Aid kit I had stashed in his truck during one of my many “Medical Expert” stages. We went to CiCi’s Pizza afterwards, and were both still rattled about the previous events. As I munched on my food, I came to the conclusion that my hand must have slipped from its hold on the hammer as I hit the rock, somehow sandwiching itself between the two. I was brought out of my thoughts as I heard my dad say, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell your mom that you threw the hammer out the window in the end, so she’ll know you were brave.”

The consequences of this experience lasted more than that day. I hadn’t been able to grow my nail back until almost a year after the whole ordeal, and it was quite embarrassing. I hated the fact that I had to go to school everyday with a Band-Aid over my finger to hide the grotesque sight. I hated not being able to play in the dirt, or grip my pencil correctly, because of the pain that would be inflicted onto the sensitive skin. The incident made me learn my lesson, because I would have never been in such a predicament if I had paid attention to my dad’s warning. I became more cautious with the choices I made, and started listening to my parents more often. Looking back on that day, I remember the phrase, “a lesson learned the hard way” and cannot help but be reminded of how much it applies to the circumstances of that particular situation.