Pulling the Plug on a Mislocated Toe

When atmospheric pressure drops quickly before a summer storm, a number of interesting things happen. For one, dish-rags used in the kitchen sink, take on a rather putrid odor. Apparently, the bacteria living in the cloth, have a very small window of tolerance for sudden changes in air pressure, so when the pressure drops by more than a couple of mm-Hg, they collectively die and their dead and decaying bodies start to smell. Another trivial tidbit has it that certain body parts – especially those already compromised, will expand slightly in lower pressures, thus impinging on neighboring nerves and pain receptors. For example, people suffering from an inflamed bursa in the knee (bursitis) will complain more about pain prior to a storm where abrupt drops in pressure occur. As further testament to this, if you severely stub a toe or bruise a fingertip with a hammer, such an injury will be just a little more painful in times of quick shifts to lower atmospheric pressure.

It was June, 1982 and I was finishing the final year of my Education degree at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon. I had taken a course in Outdoor Education a year earlier and, since that time was anxious to try some of the skills I had learned, by setting out on my own personal wilderness adventure. Not being presumptuous about my outdoor survival abilities, I opted not for 'black diamond' wilderness, however. Instead, I chose to canoe across Little Manitou Lake north of the town of Watrous – a familiar lake in Central Saskatchewan - a lake in which a swimmer apparently cannot sink and/or stay sunken because of the water’s high mineral content. This is also a lake around which there are no bears, cougars or Sasquatches – another selling feature of appeal! I packed a tent and sleeping bag and a pot in which to cook. I thought that a hatchet and knife would also come in handy as would matches, a cigarette lighter and a magnifying glass – all for the purposes of starting campfires to roast hot dogs and boil water for macaroni. The Thursday before the July 1st long weekend I drove from Saskatoon, where I was living at the time, to a friend’s farm near Watrous to pick up the canoe and paddles that I had prearranged to use for the trip. It was exciting to think that I would be on my own for three days in the ‘wilds’ of central Saskatchewan, making my way much as early explorers Pond and Kelsey had done centuries earlier. The difference, of course, was that my canoe was constructed of fiberglass and my paddles were lightweight laminated wood, my tent was of the nylon variety and my water container was state-of-the-art polyethylene. Nevertheless, I felt good about what I was setting out to do.

Concurrently to this planned excursion, I ran a small-scale lawn and garden business in Saskatoon. I mowed lawns, pulled weeds, pruned hedges, transplanted trees and did some minor landscaping jobs. The money I earned helped to pay the rent and some of the bills my student loans didn’t cover. Some recent occurrences in the business were part of the reason why I had chosen Manitou Lake as my destination for this outdoor adventure.

Manitou Lake is the traditional name used by the First Nations bands in the area. The healing spirit of Manitou was believed to be embodied in the high mineral content of the lake and could miraculously turn a cut or sore into a small scab in only a day or two.

As it happened, I was in need of some healing. A few days prior to the commencement of my journey, I had been mowing a lawn for an elderly lady who had not been able to cut grass for some time and her yard was overgrown with thistles and crested wheat grass, gone to seed. This was the usual type of job in my business – caring for yards that were too far-gone for much other than gasoline and a match. I had been working for about 30 minutes cutting grass when I heard the unmistakable sound of something metal or stone-like in the blade housing of the mower. A split-second later I felt a sharp pain in the big toe of my left foot. To fully appreciate the pain, imagine stubbing your bare big toe in full running stride against the edge of an angle-iron doorsill. Multiply that by 100 times. That was the magnitude of pain I felt in my big toe. I surveyed the scene as I crumpled to the ground, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a spark plug protruding from the toe of my boot. The sight of a spark plug sticking out of my foot didn’t seem to make sense, however. I actually read the letters ‘c-h-a-m-p-i-o-n’ before I came to the realization that, yes, it was indeed a spark plug. Even though I was wearing work boots that day, they were not steel-toed so the spark plug, which had apparently been the object caught in the mower seconds earlier, had been fired out the back and directly through the leather of my work boot. I wondered at first if this was the plug out of my mower – but no, it was still running. I was about to pull the plug out when I remembered the lesson regarding objects impaling the body. I had been enrolled in a University course completed in the winter term of that year. It was a Prevention and Care of Sports Injuries class where I learned that removal of projectiles imbedded in the body was contraindicated for fear they may be impinging on a severed artery that would then release vast quantities of blood as soon as the pressure of the object was gone. We had seen videotapes of athletes with javelins through their necks, and archers with arrows decorating their forearms. These victims walked around lucidly until the implements were removed, whereupon geysers of bright red blood pumped out of their bodies. No, I was not about to bleed to death in this backyard jungle from injuries sustained by a sparkplug run amuck. I decided to leave the plug in.

The pain changed character and my toe began to feel numb. I was sure that there was substantial nerve damage in addition to a possible severed artery. I had the wherewithal to shut off the engine of the mower. I limped to my truck and gingerly got in, being careful not to slam my extended toe in the door as I closed it. I was not sure that I would be able to drive to the hospital. I imagined that I was losing copious amounts of blood inside my boot, which would cause me to eventually lose consciousness as I drove. Theoretically, I could crash through the guard-rails of the University bridge and plunge headlong into the river below in some sort of fiery car wreck. Oh my God, what a terrible way to go. I was so young – in the prime of my life really. Luckily, I owned a truck with an automatic transmission. It was also fortunate that I was young and flexible enough to put the sole of my left foot up on the seat with my knee tucked into my chest. The cab of the truck was quite spacious which allowed me to keep my foot up for the 10-minute drive to the hospital. I was also able to operate the accelerator and the brake pedal adequately using only my right foot.

By the time I arrived at the parking lot for the emergency wing of the hospital, my toe felt like it was gone, and that’s all I could think of as I hobbled through the entrance doors at the hospital. I limped straight to the reception desk whereupon I declared to the nurse that I had severely injured my toe. Further explanation was apparently needed. She made her way around the counter to examine my foot for triage purposes I suppose. On seeing the sparkplug protruding from my boot she choked back a laugh and asked if I had come in to the hospital to have the thing changed. I mustered a laugh of my own as she called for the intern on duty. I was asked to take a seat and wait. Every eye in the room was on my foot, which did help to bring the feeling back in intermittent bouts of pain. The discomfort coupled with my growing embarrassment made it difficult to act cool in front of that particular audience but even worse, the pain was being caused by nothing less than a sparkplug still imbedded in my boot and protruding skyward, like some monolith from Stonehenge. I definitely was the least cool guy in the entire ward. People forgot their own medical problems for the next 20 minutes as they cast not-to-be-interpreted-as-stares glances at my foot. I was sweating and I was sure that I was dying before their very eyes. Small children were offering to hold my hand. Grandfathers were urging grandmothers to look away from the heinous spectacle. Had there been a violinist in the room, I am sure he would have been playing some sort of sad lament just for me. I neither needed nor desired the attention I was getting. Finally, a doctor showed up on the scene with a wheelchair of all things, and whisked me away into a treatment room. I untied, and then loosened my boot so I could remove it as soon as the doctor “pulled the plug”. He even gave a little countdown to prompt me to be ready to get the boot off in a hurry. On removal of the plug, and finally the boot there was indeed some blood – the volume of blood one would usually associate with the swatting of a mosquito half way through its task of feeding. A paper cut volume or the amount one sees after removing a staple from one’s finger. I was both relieved and even more embarrassed at the same time. I couldn’t believe that something so painful had caused so little apparent damage. The doctor removed my sock and looked at my toe. He assured me that the lost toe had been found and that it would probably not require much more attention than a little alcohol and perhaps twice-daily soakings in a salt bath.

I gritted my teeth while putting my boot back on and thanked him as I left. Murmurs of amazement moved seismically through the waiting room as I made my way out of the exit. There were “ooos” and “awes’ from the crowd as I passed through the room. The audience response turned to outright cheers as I held the plug aloft for all to see. I almost felt I should get down on my knees and praise the Almighty for my miraculous recovery. “I have been healed my brothers and sisters. Yes, I have been healed indeed.” I’m sure that others felt as I had – that a spark plug to the toe would require some pretty drastic surgery and here I was, actually back on my feet in no time at all.

Being a native of the Watrous and Manitou Lake region, I was familiar with the well-touted healing properties of the lake water. It was for this reason that I chose to canoe across Manitou. I would have three days to bathe my physical wound in the mythical waters of Little Lake Manitou and hopefully, in the same period of time, mend the emotional wounds resulting from my total embarrassment over the Emergency Room episode I had most recently endured. All went well. The trip was full of adventure (a story for another time perhaps) and the mislocated toe healed nicely in the three days I was on the lake.