In my lifetime, I have had to go to the emergency room or visit doctors for perhaps some of the least-exciting reasons ever. Today, another lame emergency-room-necessitating events transpired. But first, you shall be graced with a brief synopsis of some highlights.
Age three: I was attacked by a wild swing, perhaps pushed by a rabid cousin, and received stitches right above my right eyebrow. But, instead of a super-awesome scar, I received a scar that may be described as “cute,” which I still have to this day.
Age eighteen: I lift my (nearly empty) backpack following a convocation at my college, only to feel something in my lower back pop, causing me immense, recurring pain. I eventually sought treatment from a chiropractor, who informed me I had “spondylotheosis” (or something like that)–a common ATHLETIC injury, commonly seen in football players. Am I athletic? In no way. Have I ever played football? No. Do I even LIKE football? No. I was just lifting my backpack.
Age 21/22: A few days prior to my 22nd birthday, I wake up around 3 in the morning to stabbing pains in my gut and abdomen. I try to ride it out, taking some pepto bismol. This was no help, so I had my dear, cute, panicking husband take me to the emergency room, where they filled me up with some wonderful medications and told me it was probably my appendix. Long story short, after an MRI and a visit with the surgeon (who reminding me vaguely of Dr. House), he determined it was NOT my appendix, and prescribed me a clear-liquid diet, Maalox, and Dulcolax to help whatever was in my system “move on out.” And move-on-out it did. About every twenty to thirty minutes. And I got nothing but Jell-o and apple juice to eat on my birthday.
Today, age 23: I am making myself a sandwich. It was not to be a special sandwich, just a simple turkey sandwich with relish and cheese. I have prepared everything to perfection, except the cheese. Out I pull the cheddar cheese, and out I pull our brand-new Ikea cheese slicer:
Along I go, trying to slice myself a perfect slice of cheese, when this scumbag decides that my thumb is also cheese, and slices it open.
(ATTENTION, THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH IS NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH)
For a moment, I am confused, then begin to panic as I realize that there is blood coming out from under this flap of skin (for that was what it was). However, being the smart person I am, I cover it with a paper towel (dripping a very small drop of blood onto the paper-towel holder, which will come into the story momentarily) to put pressure on it and staunch the pretty red color from getting on the cheese (no cheese was bled on during the process of creating this wound), but not before I had the fleeting thought of poking it in such a way that I could use it as a puppet and make it talk like a mouth (yes, I have done that with more minor injuries and cuts before).
Then, I stand there for a moment. I had to make a decision. Shall I just put a band-aid on it? Shall I drive myself to the emergency room? My husband has just gone to work, shall I call him? The last idea seemed to be the smartest, as it is difficult to drive one-handed, so I call him. At this point, my body is creating some cuh-RAZY endorphins to compensate for the tingling throbbing bleeding nastiness on the thumb, so I am both crying and having a giggle fit. I think somewhere in that conversation with my husband, I said something to the effect of “blood is EVERYWHERE,” and by everywhere, I really meant that little drop on the paper-towel holder, but this freaked him probably a lot more than I was freaking out. This wife-induced panic attack is most evident in his now-broken phone, which he threw against the dashboard in frustration when the directions it was giving him to the clinic seemed to be entirely inaccurate.
So, about 30 minutes after the incident (maybe longer) we finally make it to the clinic and into a room to get everything taken care of– except for the worst (and eventually best) part, where I, once again, get shot up with drugs to numb the pain. It is now that I would like to make a public apology to the nice nurses who were helping me, as well as the wonderful parents who raised me, for I was QUITE a potty-mouth (a teary, giggly, angry, humiliated, manic potty-mouth–it was quite confusing). However, my dear husband thought it was hilarious, and he is worried now that the nurses probably thought he was a total uncaring scumbag. But I know it was laughter of love.
Anyway, the numbing stuff was AMAZING, and they were able to give me three stiches without too much more cursing from me, as well as a TOTALLY AWESOME circus band-aid to go over my tetanus shot!
Also, the nurse disagreed with my strongly that this was the most stupid injury ever. She claimed that I was at least using the correct tool for the correct job. So, on the plus side, at least this one wasn’t THAT stupid…
And now, J.D. will get to cut ALL the cheese in our house! *feel free to laugh at the pun I just made. Because… Well… He’s very good at cutting the cheese… In many ways… Snicker snicker… Hey, I think the hydrocodone I took is having fun!*
Or something like that.
P.S. My husband is amazing and wonderful and is taking care of me like a CHAMP! There are SO many things I need him to do now that I can’t use my left thumb for anything, and he’s doing everything and is letting me sit back and watch episode after episode of Parks and Recreation guilt-free!
Me and my awesome pink-camo thumb bandage. Underneath that is PURE LAME-INJURY HORROR.
The Glorious Cliche 