While preparing dinner, I received a convincing reminder of the old rule "never cut toward yourself" when I, well, cut toward myself. More specifically, I cut toward the back of my hand in a swashbuckling manner with a 10" serrated knife blade while attempting to halve a stubborn sweet potato. Who'd have thought the action of slicing a tuber with a kitchen knife would most closely resemble felling a 25 foot evergreen with said knife?
At the time of the injury, I was alone with Dieter (Margie was napping). Dieter was mortified, as was I. The wound was gaping and bleeding profusely -- Dieter immediately offered me a Spiderman Band-Aid. Telling him I'd take a raincheck on the Band-Aid, I bravely clutched a rag to the lower knuckle on my left thumb, holding my hand over the sink and awkwardly trying to lower my head below my heart. I can't believe I ever entertained the notion of becoming a nurse -- luckily I recognized my squeamishness before spending thousands of dollars on nursing school.
Mindlessly, I envisioned myself being gurnied off to surgery surrounded by a pack of scrubs-clad hospital personnel. Summoning a modicum of composure, I recognized that a treatment option lesser than the emergency room might be appropriate. Calling John at work yielded no results, and Margie had woken up sometime during the melee, so I rescued her and sat limply on the couch while Dieter tried dialing John again. (Yes, Dieter can autonomously make phone calls.) Luckily, John was on his way home, so I didn't have to deal with the wound myself -- I just had to not pass out before he arrived.
Being convinced that super glue is the cat's meow for wound closure, John convinced ME that I should put my first-aid care in his hands. I survived the gluing operation, although I nearly hyperventilated in my attempts to intake enough oxygen to feed my brain and keep me from going into shock. I am such a wimp.
The superglue seemed to be working pretty well, only springing a slight leak where some excess fluid was building up. And THEN...I ran to the convenience store for some snacks after our paltry dinner of canned soup (the venison with sweet potato fries and broccoli can wait until tomorrow). Somehow, in the process of toting an armful of junk food, wallet, and keys, I stretched my thumb beyond the super glue's holding capacity. Realizing that the wound had split open, I immediately started searching for a napkin at the condiment counter. In my frenzy, certain that blood would soon be spouting, I failed to spot a napkin dispenser. I rushed to the front counter, attracting the attention of every patron and cashier nearby.
By this point I was mortified and disgusted, having a large pool of blood developing on the back of my hand. Frantically, I attempted to keep the blood from spilling off onto the floor while balancing my armload of contraband. I asked the cashier for a napkin, and he directed me to the condiment counter. Breathlessly, I advised him that I couldn't find them. He reluctantly handed me a (hopefully clean) rag from behind the counter, just as several large splatters of blood landed on the tabloids below me. Horrified doesn't do justice to my mindset at that point. I paid as quickly as I could while pressing the rag to my hand and fielding questions about why in the world I was bleeding profusely. Practically running to escape the humiliation, I left the store and drove home, where John re-super glued the cut, creating a giant crust over a large area of my knuckle.
Lessons learned: Don't be flippant regarding use of cutting utensils; always cut away from body parts; put bandages over wounds, whether super glued or not; and try to be less spastic in case of bloody emergencies in convenience stores.
As John was preparing the cut for the initial super glue application, he asked me if it was worse than giving birth. I actually had to think about it. Blech.
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