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The other day, a co-worker was operating a machine (In case you guys didn't know, I work in a machine shop), and to cut things short, the machine crushed (not cut, not tore, but crushed) a segment of her finger off. I could only imagine the pain she went through, but truth be told, I didn't care to imagine. I didn't care at all...
My dad is my boss there, as he's the lead man of my area. Well, unfortunately for us at the moment, we carpool in my new car. When she came to my dad and showed him her finger, his first instinct was to simply get her to the hospital... and that meant going in my car. Well, did I care about her wellbeing? Did I care about her health, her finger, anything about her? Nah, I was worried she'd bleed on my seats.
Well, today I got a taste of what it feels like to have a piece of your body nearly removed. A part became jammed in the carosel that rotated parts around to the punch press... I shut the machine down (remember, it was jammed). I tapped the part out of the area it was lodged in and as soon as it was freed, it indexed and smashed the shit out of my finger and continued to close on my finger...
I yelled absolutely terrified... he ran over and helped pull the carosel around to free my finger... which was flattened... thankfully no bones were broken and the flesh was very much still attached. Can't really say it's too intact... as I can't feel anything, but it's functional enough to type with.
But what I found is I suddenly felt for my co-worker, who, unfortunately, was in the other building when this happened and couldn't yell for assistance. She couldn't beg for help... her fingner was just mercilessly segmented.
It was a lesson in empathy, something I needed, I guess.
I should be ashamed of myself.