A month ago, Dad chopped off the very end of his middle finger on his left hand. I learned about that this afternoon when I dropped by for a visit. Dad was working on my nephew's house in Willshire, Ohio, when a window pane came down and sliced it off. So he wrapped up the finger in a cloth and drove himself to the hospital in Decatur, Indiana, where he underwent surgery. They removed some skin from his inner elbow and grafted it onto the end of the finger.

And then, Dad drove back to my nephew's house and worked another three hours. I would like to say that my 73-year-old Dad merely suffers from short-term memory loss, and forgot that he had just chopped off his finger. But no, there's nothing wrong with his memory. He told me that since the finger was still numb, he knew it wouldn't hurt. So why not do something productive?

At this point, I realize, definitively, that I am adopted. Because whatever DNA Dad possesses that prompted him to return to work after lopping off part of a finger and undergoing surgery--well, I don't own a speck of that DNA. Heck, I left work early Monday because I felt nauseus. I need to commence searching the internet for my real parents. Is there a Wimps-R-Us.com website?