I work on concrete patios during the summertime. This year, I have been busy media blasting off old sealer and replacing it with a couple of fresh coats— restoring the beauty of the original. The blasting process is arduous. The hood I used was bulky and offered a limited sight glass. Summer heat and humidity, along with my particulate respirator and hot breath, often fog the protective window. The huge pull-behind air compressor's hundred pounds of constant pressure shoots crushed glass granules to strip the broken-down sealer without wrecking the concrete below.

A couple of weeks back, on a hot Monday afternoon, I was blasting in a corner next to a red-bricked chimney. My right hand grasped the blasting nozzle, and my left pulled the hood into my chest. My right foot held a metal shield to protect the brick from the force of the blast. I'm not sure what happened, but the shield with a sixteen-inch wooden handle began to fall away from the chimney, and I reached for it with my left hand. I was not planning on my wrist getting a full shot below the nozzle. The pressure tore through my blasting shirt and skin. It hurt enough for me to respond with a few choice words.The basting pot still had glass, so I kept blasting while shaking out the burning sensation from my left hand.

A media pot makes a distinct sound when it runs out of glass in conjunction with the air compressor. At this moment, when I knew that I had thirty seconds until I was out of glass, I stole a look at my arm through the bottom of the hood. Blood was dripping off of three of my fingers at that point, so I knew I had to repair my arm to continue with the job.

A water flush, duck tape, and napkin kept the blood from staining the concrete I had already blasted. Later that evening, after dousing the wound with hydrogen peroxide and triple antibiotic ointment, I noticed the comma in my arm, written by high-pressured glass.

Most of the time, slow-down notifications are not so obvious.

Now, I have a physical reminder.

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