I’ve always had a weak stomach. In fact, before I was even old enough to go to school, I watched the following segment of Sesame Street and then proceeded to vomit. Yes, really. (I got light-headed watching it again just now.)
I tell you that fun fact because it plays in to the story today.
I was enjoying a chilly day off and decided to make vegetable soup. While some of the ingredients I used were fresh, many were canned. The new pop-top cans had only recently landed on the shelf, and the can of peas I selected had just such a lid.
The only difference between the lid in the picture and the lid on my particular can of peas was that the suppliers of the peas had printed a special message on the lid: “Open with caution; edges may be sharp.” You can see where this is going already, can’t you?
I read the message and thought to myself, “Duh! Of course they’re sharp…”
Hm. It’s stuck. Gotta pull a little harder… OWWW, sonuva…..
I grabbed my finger. There was blood. Blood and pain. Pain and blood. I stuck it under the kitchen faucet. The bleeding didn’t stop, so I reached for the (relatively) clean dishrag and applied pressure, kept my hand above my heart by resting it on top of my head, sat down on the floor with my head between my knees and began to sweat drops of cold sweat while trying not to faint. This is not overly dramatic. This is my reality. Don’t judge.
When the sweating subsided and I could feel blood back in my face, I was forced to make a conscious decision. My hand was still wrapped in a dishrag with pressure applied on top of my head. I had no way of knowing the condition of the rag, so I came up with a plan. I would take my hand down and look at the rag. If it was soaked through with blood, I would go to the doctor. If it wasn’t, I would put on a bandage and go about my day.
Slowly (because my shoulder was stiff by now) I pulled my arm down. I think my eyes were closed at first. A glance out of the corner of my eye revealed that the dishrag was still its original color. Okay. This is good. Carefully standing to my feet, I plodded to the bathroom to administer the most basic of first aid. With one hand, I retrieved the box of bandages and some anti-biotic ointment before sitting myself down on the lid of the toilet.
Gently unwrapping the dishrag, I discovered some blood stains but none as bad as I had imagined. When I finally got to the last layer of cloth that was touching the wound, it was stuck. (It took me so long to recover from the initial almost-fainting spell that the cut had clotted to the rag. I am aware it’s pathetic. No need to bring it up.)
Rip it off like a band-aid.
More cold sweats…
(To be continued)
(Note: I’m not trying to be mean. I know some of my readers have shorter attention spans, and I don’t want them to miss part of the story simply because it was “too long”. You have only yourselves to blame. ;))