In my efforts to know what our family puts into our bodies, I try to make most meals from scratch. It's just a thing of mine and a relief to the billfold (who says billfold anymore? how-a-bout wallet, checkbook, you get my drift.) Anyway, within my many meals to be made in our kitchen, I've never had a real accident. There have been plenty "Sorry, honey, you're just gonna have to eat some cereal," situations and "Uh... I didn't have any of this, so I put in some of this and a little of that, and that explains why it tastes so...unbelievably disgusting, honey." But I'm talking about a real accident.
I had flittered about the kitchen using my razor sharp mandolin to cut potatoe slices, my 8" chef's knife to effortlessly slice through other varieties of vegetables, and you get the picture. I then casually began cutting my mushrooms with literally the dullest knife we own and SLICE! I cut the tip of my thumb off. Deep. Blood. Colorful words. Bad.
I would say the end, but I've now realized how much I love my thumb. It does all kinds of things I never realized... like button cloth diapers, type tweets into my keypad (which I officially now do with one hand), crack eggs doomed to be fried in the buttered skillet... and pretty much everything else I do during the day! Needless to say, I have a new love for my thumb... of which I hope returns to its prior useful state (so it can stop continuously bleeding from getting pulled by my hair while shampooing.)
All this reminds me of another time in my life when I injured a finger and got it caught in my hair while shampooing, opening the mouth of the crimson Nile.
After years of working, I had never been scheduled the mid-morning shift at the drive-in coffee shop. There was a seniority thing going on, and me, being one of the youngest, was always stuck pulling the 5:30 am shift or the red-eye, super dark, scetchy characters peeping in closing shift. But finally, to much bliss, it was my turn Saturday.
Around 11 I skipped right up to the door noticing the extremely windy conditions Mississippi seemed to be having. "Geez," I thought, "I'm going to get blown away!" As I opened the door a gush of wind closed it right behind me and SLAM! BOOM! OUCH! My hand fell victim to the predator.
My hand was stuck inside the gigantic, industrial metal door. Instincts kicked in and adrenaline rushed, and I violently yanked my hand out. I closed my eyes and cringed me teeth cradling my bad hand in my good hand and counted down from ten. My fellow barista KK asked if I was alright. I just need a second. I was fine. After my countdown and a deep breath, I opened my eyes to assure her I'd be fine. She was standing there white-faced in disbelief staring wide-eyed at the floor!
I panicked, looked down, and I was standing in a puddle of blood. Blood was everywhere. We rushed to the emergency room, got stitches and dressing on my now broken fingers. This wasn't going to stop me from leaving the next day for the ski trip I had been waiting for. I was going.
I thought it looked so cool, but I was sad it was on my wedding hand.
I finally convinced my mom I was not in pain and could still go, and I promised I would nurse my hand back to health. Little did I know that every time I took my ski glove off, I'd rip my fingernail off little.by.little.
Me showing my friend how I could pull my finger nail back.
My finger is still gnarled to this day, and I've never opened a door the same. And, most importantly, I want to be a nurse.
4 comments:
I remember that finger injury so well!!! I looks remarkably good for such trauma!!
This STILL makes me want to throw up. YUCK!
haha! Oh Ellen, you were there up close and personal! I am sure I've lost a few of my readers from this post! Eek!
I remember you telling us about that and we were all grossed out but you loved it! First steps to becoming a nurse :)
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