Among other things, my dad was a logger(*), working with his own father and brother and a handful of revolving seasonal workers. He was also an abusive alcoholic, a situation that ended up with me living on my own as a senior in high school. I (mostly) didn’t speak to him for over a decade from the time I left his house until he finally got into AA and started getting the help he’d so desperately needed.
One of the few times I spoke to him in that time was when my aunt called to let me know he’d been sliced open across the abdomen with a chainsaw. It seems my grandfather’s saw had bound up in a tree and as dad came up behind him to help, he managed to tug the saw out, whereupon the blades started to whir again, with the result that it sliced dad rather deeply, missing his liver by about a centimeter. It was an uneasy visit in the hospital, but I went to see him anyway. I wish I could say that was when he started seeking that help he needed, but at least it was the impetus for my grandfather to finally retire.
(* - He was also a mechanic, which was actually something he enjoyed far more than the logging. Of course the intersection of these professions was grandfather essentially getting free maintenance on the equipment far exceeding his investment. Isn’t family entanglement fun?)
