I severed a third of my left foot.


Like this but on my left foot.

Holiday at my house implies camping. With a caravan.  I’m not a savage.

Some feel that camping is just a rich man’s way of understanding how homeless people live. I tend to disagree.  Camping is just my way of avoiding beds that had countless sleeping bodies on them before.

Another reason for using a caravan would the access to electricity, a roof and running water.  It’s something the Wife requires. She’s fancy like that.

Setting up camp is nearly not as much fun as it may sounds.  It’s hard labour and involves lifting, hitting, unfolding, holding and screaming at the rest of the family for not moving as quickly as I want them too.  Hence the reason why we choose camp sites where they provide assistance in setting up camp.  It frees my time to take care of the important stuff aka drinking the beer before it gets too warm.  Dehydration is a serious condition.

Taking down the campsite and packing up is even worse.

It normally happens just before we leave.  Or more accurately when the holiday is over.   When the jovial spirit has left the building and is replaced by a deflated, depressed energy that looks like the moment when you pull the tent poles and the whole tent comes crashing down in a spectacular fashion.  The appearance of this deflated energy normally coincides with the disappearance of my two kids.

Before one can pull the poles, one has to pull the pegs.  It’s the little iron hooks, slammed into the ground which kept the tent from becoming a hot air balloon or a kite.

Due to my self-diagnosed ADHD, I start with this process way too early.  This decision implies that I normally do this on my own.  I started removing a few pegs and ropes, cleaning them and shoving them in a bag, before putting said bag in the caravan.  On route I forgot about one specific peg.  But my feet didn’t.  As I like to walk at the speed of white light, I kicked the peg with the full force of my left foot.  Right between the toes!

I went primal and used more swear words in 27 seconds than I’ve used in my entire life.  I was dropping f-bombs like I was the star of a Tarantino movie.  It’s certainly not my proudest moment but Wife, Dude and Princess were nowhere close.  There was a couple who was hiding their small children but that was because I was shirtless and sweating like no adult has ever sweated in the history of man.

It was excruciatingly painful and I believe I am now ready to give birth. I was still carrying the bag so after my emotional outburst, I walked it off like the trooper I pretend to be.  It was only when I got back and saw the bloody footprints I left behind that I bothered to take a moment and look at my foot.

It was like that scene from Saw.  Actually it was like any scene from Saw.  The gash between my toes extended almost up to my knee.  Blood was pouring from the wound like urine from a Russian prostitute on a bed where Obama was sleeping with the president watching…

I stated my shock and C threw me with a first-aid kit like I was a leper.  I washed my feet, dozed my toes in antiseptic and threw him with the empty bottle.  Then I bandaged my toe.  Not successfully, I might add.  The bandage came off as soon as I got up.

I had a slight limp.  A merciful neighbour saw me and offered me monkey-blood to put on the wound, so it can dry out.  No bandage required.  Monkey-blood is not real monkey-blood, we just call it monkey-blood because it kind of looks like monkey-blood.  The mercy of my neighbour didn’t extend to her willingness to touch my feet, so once again I became my own doctor/assistant/nurse/trauma surgeon.


The photographer couldn’t stomach the gash, so she photoshopped it out.

I got back to our camp site where the Wife decided to grace me with her presence, only to have her burst out laughing, the moment I turned the corner.  Turns out, I might have used a tad too much Mercurochrome.  Okay fine!  My hands looked like I lost a fight with a printer, not to mention the red sock on my left foot…and the traumatized neighbour I left behind.

What can I say, I was left to my own devices and if I decide to do something, I’ll give it 94%.  *This figure is discounted for age and skill.

It’s moments like that when I remind myself that she’s the mother of my children.

PS – I did exaggerate my injury and limped for as long as I could get the sympathy I needed.  And that blissful period lasted for an hour.  Give or take 56 minutes.

14 thoughts on “I severed a third of my left foot.

  1. Pingback: Mystery Blogger Award | All In A Dad's Work

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