Yesterday I stabbed myself in the hand. Not just stabbed, but sawed, really, while cutting bacon. I knew bacon would be the death of me, I just didn’t realize I would go like this.
I’ve never had stitches unless you count childbirth (ouch) nor have I broken a bone. So my kids thought it hilarious and Robin, who spends more time in the ER than the doctors, jumped at the chance to come along. I’ve never seen her move as fast as she did getting in the truck with me as I drove, paper towel soaked hand on the wheel, towards…well…I had no idea.
This town where we are on vacation is small and goes in a circle. We drove the circle three times before I decided a butterfly bandage might do the trick. We pulled back the paper towel, took one look at the gap between my thumb and forefinger with the meat kinda hanging out and thought, eh…better not.
We saw an office with the letters, MD on the door and pulled in. Turns out, they are the only game in town and when I walked in the receptionist said, “What did you do?” as if she’d seen it all before and was hoping for something good.
“I was cutting bacon.”
“Tell me you weren’t holding the bacon IN your hand…” said the doctor from behind me. I am guessing they don’t see a lot of traffic this time of year, as the entire staff gathered around my wound, clucking their tongues at my ignorance. “Holding it in your hand…huh…” he shook his head like my grandmother when she talked about ‘kids these days’.
Overcome with shame, I tried to defend myself. “The cutting board was in a really low cupboard and I didn’t want to bend down to get it. See, I’ve been riding my bike a lot and my legs are killing me, plus my shoulders are sunburned…” I probably should have just stopped at, ‘Yep’.
I filled out some paper work while they gathered supplies. The doc came into the waiting room, “Are you allergic to Iodine?”
“Did he just say he was going to tie you down?” asked a woman in the next chair.
“Don’t tell her our plans,” yelled another doc from the next room.
The didn’t have to tie me down, but very nearly, when the nurse explained I’d have to have a tetanus shot. Robin laughed maniacally in the corner remembering a few months back when I’d said to her, “Tetanus shots don’t really hurt…” and she’d found out different. Caught in a lie, I had no but to fake like it didn’t hurt. I looked the other way, closed my eyes and prepared to act casual. And then it was over.
“I felt nothing. Did you do it?” I asked
“I have been giving myself three shots a day for 19 years…I challenge you to find somebody better at giving shots than I,” he said.
Man, did I luck out with this guy!
So, they soaked my hand in iodine. Then they stuck a needle in the already painful wound, which seemed just mean, until the whole thing puffed up and went completely numb. Nice. A curvy needle, four stitches that would have made my needle-pointing great-grandmother look like a chump, and voila, I was good as new.
“Next time,” said the needle wielding doctor, “buy your bacon pre-sliced.”
They sent me home with instructions to cover my hand in plastic while swimming in the pool; to never swim in the Gulf, injured or not; and to come back in a week to get the stitches plucked out.
And then I went home and ate the bacon that tried to kill me…so it can keep right on trying.