On Wednesday morning I cut myself doing the dishes. A glass exploded in my hand. I screamed a few obscenities (good thing Em was in school and Elliot doesn’t yet know much English) and then yelled for Toby. I have no clue what I would have done had he not been there. On most days, he’d have been at the office already. But that morning our routine unfolded a bit differently. (Thank goodness.)
You know how when you cut yourself, you know immediately whether or not you’re going to need stitches? There’s no question as to whether you can wrap some duct-tape around it and continue working. Well, I knew before that shard finished its slice I was going to need stitches. All the blood was just punctuation.
So Toby took out a baby bib (oh, yes!) and we wrapped it around my bleeding hand using an ACE bandage. (Note to self: buy boo-boo supplies pronto.) I called a car service and headed to the ER.
A visit to one of New York City’s ERs leaves a person with many stories. There are the usual characters: those begging for pain medication while putting on one of the worst performances of their life; those looking for some attention because they don’t get any elsewhere; the crackhead; and the homeless guy pickling himself in years and years worth of booze. You don’t see the people who are actually in need of immediate emergency medical attention because they’re off getting said emergency medical attention. You see the rest of us, myself included, bloodied baby bibs and all.
But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about my stitches.
On Thursday I was picking up Em from school and I ran into a friend. She happens to be awesome and she has a cool job. She does the art direction for the blood and guts in movies. She’s kind of like Dexter but for movies. And, like Dexter, she’s really, really good at what she does.
“What happened to your hand? Pastry knife wound? Making roach wedding cakes?” She asked.
“I cut myself doing the dishes. Nothing cool, unfortunately. Just the boring old dishes.”
“Can I see it?” She asked, possibly looking for inspiration for her next project.
“Sure.” I pulled down the bandage.
“Oh, wow!” She sucked air in through her clenched teeth. For a second I thought I made the blood and guts artist feel squeamish. “Wow!” She said with amazement. “That looks like work done by a really bad makeup artist! But it’s the real deal. Who sewed you up? Where on earth did you go?”
I laughed. “It was a 10-year-old med student with no sense of humor. Terrible, right? I thought so too. Good thing I’m not a hand model.”
“Good thing it’s not on your face! Although, that have been great for Halloween. It actually looks like you did this for Halloween. It doesn’t look real at all. Terrible work.”
“I know. I was kind of surprised he’d only given me 4 stitches. It seemed to warrant more than that.”
Then she went on to say that I needed to go somewhere else, that the scar was going to be awful and that I may even get an infection since pieces of the wound were still open.
So, my wounded warriors. Do you think he did a shoddy job as well? Have you ever had stitches? What are your thoughts on my latest boo-boo?
Taken right after I got the stitches.
Sorry if I’ve officially grossed you out with all my skin issues lately. Happy Halloween!