Farming: a risky occupation

Farming — one of the most noble occupations — is also one of the most dangerous. I shall give you a few personal examples from the life of a farmer and large animal veterinarian.

This past week, we received reground blacktop from a state highway for use on some of our gravel roads between buildings. If spread 4-6 inches deep and compacted, it is a cheap alternative to professional blacktop. We were almost done when my hand on the door post of the IH 1086 was just a bit too close to the door jamb; the wind caught the door, sending it about 50 mph around and slamming it shut on the end of my middle finger.

What followed was immediate pain and blood squirting out from all four sides and in the middle of the nail on that finger. I couldn’t shake it enough. Dang, that hurt. But, with three loads left, I wasn’t quitting until we were done. That mentality is tough for non-farmers to understand. There was no one to take my place, and those trucks didn’t care about my finger. Period.

So, I finished spreading the next loads and climbed on the vibrating packer for a couple hours. Then, I went into the house and soaked my finger in ice water. I wrapped the finger in gauze to prevent blood from dripping on things. After cow chores the next morning, I went to the ER in our hospital six miles away for a radiograph and a finger guard. Eight days after the accident, the nail is still very black and blue, but it will grow back in a few months. This was actually one of my minor injuries.

My collection of farm injuries started in the third grade, when I was visiting my grandparents with my cousins. I fell off the roof of a corn crib and broke an arm. I was taken to a hospital, anesthetized with ether and casted. After surgery, I was offered some juice and promptly vomited in the hospital.

Grade school was full of bumps and bruises but no serious injuries. High school was a little different. My job on the farm was to bring the cows in from pasture in the morning so they could be milked. One rainy morning, as Peanuts (our pony) and I were chasing the cows through a small valley near the barn, he stumbled and rolled over my head on a rock pile. I lost three days of my memory in the hospital with a concussion, but I healed quickly.

A year later, I was at a dance for high schoolers. At intermission, as I walked outside with a cousin, a drunk came out of a bar and hit me in the head. As I fell, my head hit the edge of a car bumper. My cousin, Margie, and her boyfriend put me in their car and drove to the Sparta hospital where she worked. Another concussion and three more days of no memory, but I did meet a cute nurse’s aide, which led to a summer romance.

College and veterinary school were fairly uneventful for broken bones, but large animal practice resulted in some memorable incidents. I was climbing over a gate between two walls in a barn to vaccinate some calves when the gate fell forward. My leg slid between the boards, and the gate hit a water tank and stopped, but my body didn’t, and my ankle broke. I hobbled out to the truck and drove to the ER. They cut my shoes and pants off before pinning, plating and screwing my ankle together.

Once, I was at a 20-cow dairy to trim a foot. There were no professional foot trimmers in those days, so vets provided the service. We would put a rope over a beam and create a pulley system to pull the foot up high so we could work on it. This cow had a quick leg and landed a kick to the side of my face. I was spitting blood but determined to finish. Then, I drove myself to the ER again. When I looked up at the needle the doctor was using to anesthetize the inside of my cheek, I swear that needle seemed four inches long. The kick had lacerated the inside of my cheek along the upper teeth line.

A few years later, at the same farm, I was trimming another foot and got kicked again. She put an imprint on my chest with her foot and broke a rib. No ER visit this time; the rib healed on its own.

In 1995, we were learning how to store feed in piles. I had bought two new rear unloading forage boxes that summer. At about 8:30 p.m. on Sunday, July 2, I had a full load and pulled the rope to unhook the wagon from the chopper, but the new wagon started to roll toward the woods. So, I jumped out of the tractor and attempted to turn the wagon pole uphill. As I did, I slipped on the hay. The wagon hit me, and I tried to form a ball; I pulled my legs to my chest and bent my head down with my arms around it, very similar to airplane crash mode. I was like a beach ball in front of an SUV. If you drive forward, the ball will come out the back end by rolling under the car. Thankfully, I did not get run over by the tires.

Peter was 11 years old and had just unhooked an empty wagon. He didn’t see the actual accident but easily figured out I needed help immediately. He drove his tractor to the pile area, jumped in my vet truck and called my wife on the two-way radio. She immediately called the ambulance and Dr. Cornell, a doctor who lived a few miles away in the next valley. As I lay on the ground, I could hear every siren from the ambulance and fire truck in the cool night air as they raced to the farm. It seemed like an eternity before Peter led them to the field. They quickly checked my vitals and placed me on a board. As they carried me up the hill, I felt like I was falling off, even though I was strapped in tightly. Once in the ambulance, I could feel every bump on the six-mile ride to the ER.

The doctor on call, not Dr. Cornell, decided my injuries were not treatable in our small local hospital, but they did get me stabilized with oxygen and fluids until the med flight arrived. Eight years later, I went into the hospital clinic for a blood test. The nurse remarked, “Wow, you sure look better than the last time I saw you.” I was confused and asked, “When was that?” She responded, “I was working in the ER the night of your accident. You were so blue I didn’t think you would make it. I think, if Dr. Cornell hadn’t gone to the farm, you would have died.”