I can still see where the tendon was sewn back together in my arm. There is a nerve called the median nerve, which provides feeling or sensation to the middle two fingers of, in this case, my left hand – my writing hand if I was writing with a pen. To someone with no idea of my past, this scar may look like something else. It isn’t. You see, when the glass bottle exploded, due to high temperatures from the day before, and because I acted too quickly in trying to get from the outside of the place I worked at the time, back to the inside, I dropped the glass bottle from between my fingers.

I was filling up a milk crate with bottles of cool drink, to fill up the drinks fridges inside the shop. 

I had three glass bottles held between my fingers, and the palm of my hand was facing upwards at the time. When the bottle slipped from between my fingers, and it only took one bottle to slip, it fell to the ground. I was bending over as well, so it was likely only sixty or seventy centimetres.

We had experienced days of high temperatures, and this was in the Mid West of Western Australia – the Batavia Coast, also called the central west. The shed the stock had been stored in was made of metal; corrugated iron – so it was still extremely warm.

When the bottle hit the cement floor, and I did see it falling, I turned my arm over so my palm was facing down. It was an instinct, a way to protect myself from getting glass in my eyes or in  my face. The bottle exploded, glass flew into the air, and some of it, quite a big chunk, went into the soft skin of the underside of my wrist.

I knew it was bad. I held my hand above my heart, higher than my heart, in the air, and returned to the kitchen. I am actually not sure whether I left the crate with the drinks in it behind or not.

I found a tea-towel, wrapped it around my wrist, and held it high. I needed to contact someone, so I had to release the pressure I had applied to my wrist. I then used the intercom we had in the kitchen of that particular business, and contacted the lady who lived less than 200 metres away, and told her I had experienced an accident. I woke her up, because it was the middle of the night, so she didn’t quite understand what I was saying, and was a trifle groggy (that means sleepy), so she said that she would just have a quick shower and she would be right there.

I said, ‘Ok,’ and put my hand back over my wrist with the tea towel in place.

Customers came into the store, so I served them. I went from the kitchen to the counter, holding my hand over my wrist to keep the tea towel in place, and I served them. They did not ask whether I was okay, they just looked at me strangely and paid for what they needed to pay for. I continued to serve customers until the lady I had contacted came.

It was 3am by the time I had got the local doctor out of bed, and I needed to catch a taxi there to see him. He was very young, just out of university really, and he sewed a few sloppy stitches into my wrist and sent me on my way.

I ended up going home. I believe I stayed until the end of the shift though, which was 6am.

Later that morning I woke up in agony and called a fellow employee who took me to the Geraldton Regional Hospital, where it was found that I had partially severed the nerve, and completely severed the tendon. The surgeon who saw me was a mico-surgeon, and, because my place of work was covered for this type of accidental insurance, I was then transported to St John of God, in Geraldton, which is where the surgery took place. 

The scar on my arm is extended, because the surgeon needed to extend what was already existing to retrieve the tendon and sew it back in place.

I could take a photograph, but I don’t see the point, because I think it would be better to see it in person.

C.S. Capewell.

At that time, my surname was Tew. I think if someone looked, they would find the correct year and date of the place where I worked, they would be able to find the hospitals, the surgeon who operated, and any other proof they were looking for. I’m not kidding. Have fun with that.

I took six weeks off, because that was the typical recovery period after a surgery, regardless of what type of surgery it was. I spent time with a physio-therapist, who had me put my hand in a tin of wheat and stir my wrist around, to make it stronger. I was told to use tins of baked beans or spaghetti to extend my wrist up and down to prevent the scar from becoming too tight.

I can see a bunch of particularly nasty people having fun with this. I’m not kidding.