Typing is hard this week, which is just great, because I type for a living. I can’t whine too much, of course, because the reason for the difficulty is my own stupidity. On Monday, I acquired a finger avulsion, which is a fancy-schmancy way of saying that in my dumbassery, I lopped off the tip of my finger by not using the safety guard for my mandoline slicer that was LITERALLY on top of the damn thing when I took it out of the box.
Don’t cook distracted, people. Extremities may be lost.
Being the daughter of a man who has avulsed (avulated? avulted? avunculared?) most of his fingertips multiple times, my initial response was, “Eh, it’s fine. Just give me some paper towels and some duct tape.”
Note 1: That may have come a minute or two after the excessive hopping and “Ow, ow, ow, ow”-ing around the kitchen.
Note 2: The duct tape may have been covered in Hello Kitty faces.
I did have to do some contortionist lying down with my feet up and my hand above my head, but it wasn’t because I was losing tons of blood. I just don’t bleed well. Seriously I’m on the Red Cross “Don’t let this gal donate because she’ll crumple at the snack table EVERY TIME” list. It’s embarrassing, but I’ve gotten to the point in my life where I recognize the “on my way to blacking out” feeling well enough in advance of blacking out that I can do what I need to do.
John’s poor dad was here helping John take out a stump, though, and he’s a much nicer person than his son. John knows me, so his reaction to my laying down dramatically in the living room while bleeding is to wait and see if I tell him I need anything. John’s dad, on the other hand, was sweetness itself, though I felt bad at just how alarmed for me he was.
As it turns out, his suggestions that we go to the doctor was the correct one. Even though I had iced the finger, applied pressure for several hours, and swapped the paper towels for gauze from our spiffy first aid kit (given to us by John’s sister, incidentally, in what I would call prophetic if I didn’t have a propensity for self-injury on a stupid scale), the bleeding wouldn’t quite let up. When I woke up in the morning, the gauze was soaked through.
The best first aid instructor I ever had told the class that even bleeding a little will kill you if it goes on long enough, so I decided that 18 hours of minor bleeding was cause to let a pro take a stab (ow, bad metaphor) at bandaging me up. It hurt and they made me update my Tdap, but it was totally worth it, bot only because they used their sci-fi-like “gel-impregnated foam” (doctor’s exact words, I kid you not) to stop the bleeding, but because of this:
Do you see that, knitters? That happy little gauze bandage marching up and down my finger is knit. Proof positive that knitting save lives. Or fingers. Or at least dry cleaning bills…