Honestly, The Things I Do To Have Something To Write About
Hi! I'm back! Almost immediately!
I know that you can't miss me if I don't go away, and the site is still brokey and the comments counter still not working, but this has been an...interesting morning, WHAT WITH ME GOING TO THE HOSPITAL AND ALL, and now that I am sitting on the sofa, taking my second sick day of the week, I figured: what the hell. I might as well write about it, seeing as I'm feeling pretty fucking sorry for myself at the moment. Y'all can feel sorry for me, too! I'm very pitiful.
But, first, let's start with a warning! Gentle readers, if you are easily squicked out by descriptions of nasty lacerations and bloody bits, then this is not the entry for you. No! You can go read about soft bunnies, or people who put hats on cats, or whatever else causes fuzzy feelings. Feelings that do not involve BLOOD. EVERYWHERE. There is BLOOD in this entry, and I just barely survived the pasta on Sunday, and why is God testing me so?
Anyway. Besides blood, there is also backstory! See, apparently, Dukay and I should never ever ever go out to dinner with our friends Al and G, because dinner with Al and G and Dukay and I is cursed. I shall present evidence now:
LAST time Al and G and Dukay and I all went to dinner was about a month ago. And we had a lot of fun, and yay double date, etc. And the next day was a Saturday, and I was just about to take a much-deserved shower when the phone rang. And it was Dukay, and Dukay explained that G? Was in some sort of horrible accident, and you can SEE BONE, PEOPLE, and he knows nothing else except she is in the emergency room and Al just called and he is in South Carolina and everyone is FREAKING OUT and I have to get down there NOW.
So. I hopped into the car, and drove seven thousand miles per hour to the hospital, thinking that G was in a car accident, obviously, and that maybe she was missing limbs, and maybe I should be looking on the side of the road for, like, her LEG, so that I could toss it in the trunk and MAYBE THEY COULD STICK IT BACK ON, and I was KIND OF FREAKING OUT.
Dukay was supposed to be finding G's purse and her insurance card, and he kept calling me, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and I kept telling him to just wait until we find G's leg and get it...I don't know, NAILED back onto her stump, and just GIVE ME A MINUTE, MISTER, and there was much confusion and terror.
Eventually I got to the hospital, got totally turned around, ended up in the wrong unit about ninety times, and then finally made my way to emergency. I walked to the front desk and told them whom I was there to see, and a doctor IMMEDIATELY grabbed my arm and said, "Come with me, I know where she is," and all I could think was GOOD LORD, SHE IS A HEAD ON A PLATTER, AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
And he took me back to her, and there she was, WITH ALL OF HER LIMBS, but with a massive cut in her arm from falling down a flight of stairs.
And I ran to her, and was so glad to see her that all I could do was sputter things like, "You're not just a head! I looked for your leg! But it's on your body! You have two of them! I am so glad!" and this helped matters not at all, but shortly we were both calmed down and laughing and everything was FINE. Until the doctor came in.
He immediately announced that G needed stitches, and turned to the nurse and NOT SO SUBTLY requested "the big needle."
G turned about six shades of white. And I was like, dude. Can't you, like...not freak her out? She's obviously freaked out. I don't care what you have to do. Ask for the "ig-bay eedle-nay," but LOOK AT WHAT WE HAVE HERE. A PANICKED BLEEDY PERSON. And you should stop scaring the bleedy girl.
I held G's hand while he did the stitches, and I blabbed on about totally unrelated shit for twenty minutes, with the doctor every once in a while popping into the conversation by announcing, "Know what she's doing? Distracting you. She's good at it!" Thanks, Doc!
But while she was getting stitched, I COULD NOT STOP WATCHING the stitchy part. I had never seen such a thing. First there was all blood and gore and oozy bits, and then there was a straight line of stitches. Just like on Frankenstein.
And I made up my mind right then that I? WOULD NEVER GET STITCHES. Give me a helmet, put me in a fucking bubble, whatever, but I AM NOT GETTING STITCHES, because they are TOTALLY GROSS and look EVER SO PAINFUL and listen, I'm not having it.
Know what I say to the "me" of last month? HAAAAA! That is what I say.
Because, last night, for the first time since that fateful evening, Al and G and Dukay and I went out to dinner. And again: wonderful time! Excellent friends and excellent food, and oh, the fun and goodness. And Dukay and I came home, and we went to bed, and he woke me up with little kisses this morning and I thought, shit, man, this is going to be a good day.
I walked him out, and a few minutes later, I went to shut the door leading to the garage. And I was barefoot at the time. I plan to never be barefoot again, even when showering or sleeping, and this is why:
As I was pulling the door shut, I somehow managed to run the door over the toes on my right foot, thereby smooshing them to within an inch of their little toe lives. And that hurt. But the real problem was that the metal thing? That is attached to the floor and goes under the door? Which I guess is a door jamb, or something, but WHATEVER, it is fucking SHARP, SHARP LIKE RAZOR, and it sliced off the pad of my toe.
I did not immediately know that, because I was too busy screaming OH MY FUCK as the dogs cowered in terror. And then I do what you always do with a toe injury, which is:
(1) Not look at it; and
(2) Attempt to walk it off.
And I had done about ten laps around the kitchen island, thinking that this was just the worst stubbed toe, like, EVER, when I finally looked down and saw that I had left bloody footprints all over the kitchen. And this is when I LOST IT COMPLETELY.
I ran upstairs and turned on the bathwater and stuck my foot under the stream, and that is when I saw that MY TOE was essentially CUT IN TWO, with half of the toe-ness just...flapping there. And I screamed bloody murder, and grabbed a phone, and called: Dukay. Of course. Because of his extensive medical knowledge, seeing as the man SELLS ADVERTISING for a living and all.
Poor Dukay answered and was treated to a hysterical me, shrieking things like, "MY TOE I CUT OFF MY TOE OW OW OW," and when he tried to get me to explain this in a manner that was, you know, remotely coherent, I just kept on saying things like, "THIS little piggy is still attached, but THAT OTHER little piggy IS STILL IN THE FUCKING GARAGE OH MY GOD, and I TRIED WALKING IT OFF but I think I walked WRONG and AHHHHHHH"
He explained that I needed to keep it under the water and then to put pressure on it and to get it over my heart, which is...y'all, that is hard when you're dealing with a toe. I ended up laying on my bed with my legs stuck in the air, FREAKING OUT and watching as blood ran down my leg, and that is when I knew I would need to call A Professional, and so I called my mother.
(Somewhere in here I also called the office to tell them I would not be coming in today, as I had lost a toe in a nasty garage incident, and I think my lovely description of the flapping and the bloodshed pretty much convinced everyone that NO, the office is NOT the place for you, please never mention your toe again, ever, in any context.)
Mom immediately announced that she was taking me to the ER, and for me to put on some flip-flops or whatever and she'd be right there. While I waited for her, these are some of the actual thoughts that ran through my head:
(1) I wonder if I should go back and look for bits of toe and put them on ice;
(2) I wonder if the dogs have already eaten the bits of toe; and
(3) I wonder if the Medical Professionals who are about to see my toes will mind that I have not had a pedicure in ROUGHLY ELEVEN BILLION YEARS, and is there time for me to like...file? Buff? ANYTHING?
The hysterical thought-train that was my brain was eventually halted when my mom got to my house. She staunchly refused to even glance in the direction of my feet, because...ew, but she took me to the emergency place. And there, the doctor DID look at my feet, and was completely squicked out.
"Ew," he said.
"OW," I agreed. "Unless you are talking about my pedicure. I'M SORRY! THERE WASN'T TIME TO BUFF."
He cleaned the wound (OW OW OW) and then tried to figure out how to best stitch it, but in the end he decided that it was just too weird of a cut, and so instead he just used those glue-stitchy things and wrapped the sucker up like a little piggy in a blanket, and I was free to hobble on home. After, you know, I got a tetanus shot so I don't get the lockjaw. Because THAT sounds like fun! Lockjaw!
And...here I am. Back on the sofa, feeling IMMENSELY sorry for my bloody self. And thinking that I will never, EVER have dinner with Al and G again, because WHY COME does a girl always have to go the hospital the next day? People, do you SEE the pattern here? Is it not scary to you? It is scary to me! Next time, someone could lose an eye.
(Not that it would be any more painful than losing a toe. Which fucking hurts, if I have not mentioned. And I don't know what you've heard, but if you have heard that I am a wimp, that is entirely accurate.)
Anyway. Y'all watch out for damned doors. And for the LOVE of all that is HOLY, don't go ANYwhere with Al and G.