Yesterday’s post ended with me about to faint after slicing my finger while opening a can of peas. I had just yanked the dishrag off and re-opened the wound when everything started going hazy again. Our story continues there…
I reapplied pressure and put my hand on top of my head again as I made my way, quickly, to my bed, where I flopped down and waited for the cold sweats to stop…again. At least if I passed out, I would already be horizontal on a soft surface.
Obviously this was not going to be a situation I could remedy alone, so I reached for the phone on the night stand and began making some phone calls. I called a nursing student friend. No answer. I called a church friend who lived nearby. No answer. At this point, I knew I would have to do something drastic if I didn’t want the dishrag to become a permanent part of my hand, and if I didn’t want to make the evening news because I fainted, hit my head and knocked myself unconscious. Have I mentioned I lived alone at the time? Because I did. Otherwise this story wouldn’t have been near as “intense”.
I changed clothes, with the dishrag securely in place, got in my car and drove to my office. Not my brightest move, granted, but I didn’t pass out behind the wheel and nobody was harmed in the commute.
When I walked into the office, our admin looked at me, confused. “I need someone to put a band-aid on for me.” Surprisingly, that didn’t seem to alleviate her confusion. Two of my co-workers, however, overheard my comment and emerged from their offices. We’ll call one Compassionate and one Not. While Compassionate retrieved the first aid kit, Not wanted to see the damage. He mocked me when I turned my head to avoid seeing him remove the dishrag. As I explained my failed attempts at home to apply my own band-aid he laughed and said something along the lines of, “So you decided to DRIVE?” Desperate times, Not. Desperate times.
Meanwhile, Compassionate had returned with the first aid, chuckling at Not’s commentary, but remaining quiet. They examined my finger.
Not: It’s just a flesh wound… wait, is that bone? *giggle*
Me: *flopping back on the couch, nauseated* SHUT. UP!
Compassionate: Stay still!
Compassionate: There. You can look now. I’m done.
Me: That’s okay. Thank you.
Not: It’s not even bleeding through the band-aid.
Me: How big of a band-aid did you use? Feels like it’s covering half of my finger.
Compassionate: Take a look.
The band-aid was not where I thought it would be. I couldn’t feel the tip of my finger, but the band-aid didn’t cover the tip of my finger. Of course Not didn’t believe me and tested me by poking the tip of my finger with a pen to see if I could feel it. I couldn’t.
(Stay tuned tomorrow for the conclusion of my scar story. In the meantime, feel free to share your own in the comment section.)