*disclaimer, this happened at least a month ago, I was just really delayed in writing about it. But I bet you knew that by the fact that it wasn't riddled with typos from my once errantly bandaged pinky.
I was washing dishes in my sink, as I so often do, when I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew, maybe 5 or 10 seconds before this happened, that this was going to happen. I had my hand wedged all the way in a Collins glass, scrubbing (I'm an aggressive dishwasher) when I heard a loud crunch, and my hand went numb.
Three guesses.
As soon as I couldn't feel my hand I began to slowly fill with panic. I was too afraid to look down and survey the damage. It felt like I stood there for minutes, but in reality it was only a few seconds. I finally looked down and saw blood everywhere. Just everywhere. Still no feeling in my hand. I let out an animal-like groan. I vaguely heard my roommate ask what happened as she started toward the kitchen. Then I started going south.
"Rachel" came in and caught me as I started to slump over toward the kitchen window. Good thing, too, or else I'd have cracked my head open on the dog bowl, or windowsill, or microwave, or some other hard thing that you're not supposed to fall on. She lifted up my hand to assess the cut(s) and in doing so I saw the damage, again -- and then I slumped, again.
Let me, in my defense, tell you that I am not afraid of blood or pain. I have never come close to passing out at the sight of blood (okay, I witnessed a birth up close once and I got a little light-headed, but I held my own, thank you very much). I've also suffered some impressive injuries, and I am still the reigning concussion queen in my peer group.
What I think was so terrifying about this was the fact that I couldn't feel my hand. Also, the bleeding wouldn't stop. Rachel sat me down in a kitchen chair and started squeezing and lifting my hand (did I mention she's certified in first aid?) and telling me everything was okay. About five minutes after I cut myself I began to feel the pain. Awful, awful pain. And then I got this unmistakable burning in my stomach. I told her I was going to be sick and lurched my way to the bathroom, making a mess as I went along. I didn't throw up though. The body is a funny thing, especially when you're frightened.
As I sat heaving 5-year-old-like sobs and trying to wipe my nose I told Rachel that I thought I needed stitches. All of this blood. All of this pain. Stitches, right? Well, in order to get stitches you need stuff to stitch together. And when you take a niiiiiiice chunk out of your knuckle, well, the effectiveness of stitches is questionable. Especially when you run the hypothetical inevitable finger bend through your mind and see the stitches tearing open. EWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Sorry.
When I finally calmed down Rachel went to clean the mess out of the sink. Interestingly enough, the glass had only broken into three large pieces. I can't tell you how many wine glasses I've broken with my aggressive dish-washing style -- they leave little nicks, not unlike paper cuts. This glass was thick though, and basically turned into three knives as it broke. Ugh, I still shudder thinking of that awful noise.
Anyway, bottom line is I didn't get stitches. Partially because I became obstinate from the pain, and partially because I was afraid of my insurance deductible. A few days after I ran out of the bandages Rachel bought for me, I went to the pharmacy to buy myself more. I bought myself a sweet box of Animal Planet animal print bandaids. They were absolutely pointless because I was using those big absorbent pads and gauze and surgical tape. I have two nasty scars to prove that I didn't get stitches. And we're down one Collins glass. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre, as Rachel would say.
The positive side of all of this is that the next time I break a wine glass and get a "paper cut," I'll be able to bandage myself in style. That and, for the time being, that big, white, neglected Amana dishwasher in the kitchen is my new best friend.
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