I sit on the stoop (门廊) in front of my friend's house at the top of a steep hill. And now my friend is late, and I'm stuck here waiting.
I see a man approaching.
"Por favor. Call 911," the man says. "Finger. Cut." With his left hand, he is pressing the handkerchief around his right little finger.
"No. Have. Phone," I say, as if English is also my second language.
"Have phone," he says, and dips his chin toward his front pants pocket. There, I find a phone, and call 911.
The operator answers, and I say "I'm with this guy, and he cut his finger."
"Did he cut it off?"
"Did you cut it off?"
"Sí." He sighs.
"Yes. He cut it off."
"Where is it?" the operator asks.
"Where is it?"
"Upstairs," he says, pointing with his elbow to the house next door.
"Go get it," she instructs me.
I follow the man toward the house. Inside, I see a table saw(锯), and the blood spreading across the ceiling, but I don't see the finger. I lift up each foot and look underneath to be sure I've not stepped on it. I'm getting that jumpy, tight-shouldered feeling like when you've lost sight of a spider that was on your ceiling a moment ago.
"Do you see it?" I ask him.
He points at his own finger beside the table saw. I grab a paper towel, pinching it carefully, the way you might pick up a harmless but frightening insect.
"We have secured the finger," I tell the operator.
"Hang tight. The ambulance is on its way."
We sit on the stoop waiting for the ambulance.
"You're going to be OK," I say, putting my free hand on his sawdust-covered back.
"Gracias," he says.
"De nada. Esta no problemo," I reply in broken Spanish.
It feels good to be able to comfort someone, anyone. For months now, the second my hands would go idle(闲散的), a familiar depression would climb on my back. I have been trying to put on a good face for my kid, but I feel as if I've been failing. Could I save myself? I wouldn't know how. But I am determined to save this man.
Finally the ambulance arrives, picks him up, and they're off.
Throughout the evening, I can't stop worrying about the man. I decide to call the hospital.
"Hi! I helped a guy who cut off his finger, and I don't even know his name, but I'm wondering whether he came to your hospital."
The nurse says, "His name is Jose Ramos, and he's waiting for surgery. Would you like to leave a message?"
"No. I don't want to bother him. I just wanted to be sure he was OK."
The next morning, I call the hospital again. This time, I'm put through to Jose's room. "How was the surgery?"
"No surgery," he says. "No enough blood."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I say.
Later that day, I remember that old proverb about how if you save someone's life, you are responsible for them for the rest of their life, which never made sense to me before. Shouldn't the person who got saved owe a debt, and not the other way around? But today, I get it. It's a great honor to help someone in need.
I start keeping a lookout for other people in need of assistance. I help push a stalled car out of the road. I aid a disoriented cyclist when her bike gets clipped by a car. I adopt a dog. Then one day, a month or two after the finger incident, I realize I have completely forgotten to be depressed. I've been so busy playing the role of local hero that I have ignored to drag my feet and stare into space and imagine the world without me.
Now, more than a decade has passed since Jose's accident. Occasionally I search for "Jose" plus "Ramos" plus "finger." I wish I could see him again, to see how he's getting on. But more important, to thank him, because when he lost his finger, he saved my life.
