Two years later and I still barely feel the tip of my right thumb.
I was milling a table leg for an entryway table — but I wasn’t thinking about the 28 carbide blades spinning at 5000 RPMs.
My mind was elsewhere (on dovetail jigs, of all things). And before I knew it, my thumb made contact with the cutterhead of my jointer.
I’m no stranger to shop injuries. Cuts, knicks, slices. I single handedly prop up the Band-Aid industry. And I’ve had enough stitches to hold together Frankenstein’s monster.
But this was different. My brain turned off. I froze. Just a breathing, bleeding hunk of meat standing alone in my shop.