Mr. Goodbar left for a business trip and for the first time since we’ve moved in together (it had been approximately eight weeks, 6 days, 16 hours, and 22 minutes) I found myself completely alone (kids with Daddy) and starving. I thought I’d make myself a bowl of brown rice with chicken and cut some cold butter with a knife (for the rice) and….
cut my left index finger to the bone and stand there bleeding profusely all over the kitchen. Did I say all over? Did I say bleeding? Profusely?
I stood there for a moment – it was in slow motion and a detached voice said:
“Oooh, that SUCKS!”
and “Damn… that really HURTS.”
When i was done realizing that this was not a superficial wound I gathered my wits about me I ran around the house yelling:
to no one. but myself. because, well.. no one was home and because the situation called for a cool head and quick action.
I rushed around trying to figure out the how to stop the bleeding and find my phone was so i could… could what? text? tweet? Interesting how I may very well lose a finger but I am concerned of the whereabouts of my i-phone (at all times apparently)
How ridiculous. I did not need my i- phone !!, I needed my FINGER! I needed my car key, I needed gas, I needed a tourniquet, a rubber band to hold it on, and I needed stitches so that I can operate and function like the mentally impaired adult that I am! That much was as clear as mustard.
I continued “Oh shitting” out loud as I made my one handed drive to the ER in my ever practical family car: the Mini Cooper stick shift. Holding my hand above my heart well over my head (It has a sunroof) Not really sure how I got there. at all.
I walked into the ER and the Triage Nurse station was directly in front of me. I said to myself:
The little nurse there was all business and demanded I take off the rubber band from around the roll of sullied paper towel that was once my finger (blood trail on floor to mark entrance) so she could re-dress the “laceration” (her words) .
“Oh yeah- this is gonna need stitches for sure” she said as we unwrapped it and although I looked through squinty eyes that really did not want to look but totally needed to see I promptly vomited on the floor.
She seemed unimpressed, but I’ll tell you, I was was just the opposite… the body is completely amazing- you know? My finger looked ALL KINDS of WRONG and my stomach intuitively KNEW THAT and so it just kind of rejected the whole idea (along with the spoonful of rice I managed to shove in my mouth before the stabbing).
While I was sitting in the waiting room of the ER sexting with the Goodbar (got to keep things spicy) I took a quick glance around the room and it became clear why the nurse seemed so lesefaire about my revolting finger
wound “laceration” (her words). – Every guy in the waiting room had one!
There was a big guy to my left who’d done it with a Ginsu cutting bell peppers while preparing dinner for a party of 30 and really working at a clip when …. well, needless to say thank god his finger nail got in the way. Another who’d gotton the top of his finger pinched off (OWIE) when a dude dropped a massive weight on his hand while at the gym. Then two more guys who’d been in minutes earlier (being stitched up ) who were both in gourmet kitchen accidents. I felt like part of a brotherhood- (except i was like the sister in the family of wounded hands- like a middle child who’s just stuck with brothers all around her just making the best of her life with men everywhere) we all silently sat there – sharing this horrible event that would make us closer- just so that we could never see each other. ever. again. of our sliced appendages…we were survivors. i was not alone. (Did I mention that I was totally checking out the size of their finger dressing and comparing them to mine?)
(Mine was the biggest.)
The guys seemed super impressed by the amount of blood coming from my new tourniquet and the fact that I was able to keep my wits about me with such a terrible “laceration” (her words) and asked me:
how did it It happen?
all of my wounded hand brothers were focused on me….
They were all looking at me.
“I, um, I… er, I…”
“I’m not sure..”
“I mean… ”
“I… I didn’t get a good look at the guy… ahh… I mean, ahh…”
“butter. It was dark… everything happened so fast… I…. I…”
“and I bleed-ed.”
Six stitches. I am home now, eating my chicken and rice dinner (sans butter).
Can’t be left home alone. again. ever.