It Was Only a Partial Amputation–Not to Worry
I’ve been to emergency again. Come on, it had been since December so don’t judge me. The reason I tell you this is that this is a lesson for all of you. I LOVE YOU. THAT IS WHY I DO THIS.
Picture it. White wine. Sharp knife. Round root vegetable. Part of my body was disposed of in the trash.
Moral of the story: If you drink too much white wine in the heat and then decide to slice slippery, round sweet potatoes, it will not end well. Your finger end that is.
The good news is that my extensive criminal record of touching things with my left pointer finger and leaving my fingerprints all over doors and elevators worldwide can officially be expunged. I have been dying to use the word expunged and I am planning on using it extensively in this post. If you are expungefobic, I suggest you come back next time. I will expunge this one visit from the record and you can move on. For those of you still with me, say the word expunge out loud and tell me it is not fun to say? Say it with me, expunge. Fun!
I should have gone to emergency that night. I mean, the blood was insane. Like, pouring out of me. Because of the wine and because we are 25 minutes from the nearest hospital it seemed unreasonable to call an ambulance for a cut finger, even if it was partially missing. Skipping ahead, my medical chart calls it a ‘partial amputation.’ I am pretty proud of that.
Back to the story. I dressed the wound several times that night and even found a finger condom in the first aid kit to wear overnight to not ruin the bed sheets. Good news is I made lemonade, not literally because that would have stung pretty bad, and taught Shaggy which way to put a condom on a finger. Life skill y’all. Oh, and I think the scars for him are even more real than mine.
If you are squeamish, expunge yourself now.
The dressing with the fancy condom was a bad idea. It all stuck to the wound. Well, not the condom, that would be weird. To redress it, I had to rip it off. I couldn’t get the bleeding under control so I poured a coffee and had some breakfast. Finally, I headed out to emerg holding my hand above my head like I finally knew the answer to that trig question in grade 12 that I never did get. I was pretty sure I hadn’t been to this particular emergency department but they had me on file so I was forced to vaguely recall being there for an ear infection four years ago. Good times.
Murphy showed up and the bleeding had stopped by the time the doctor saw me. Seems I hit an artery, which explains the bleeding. No skin left to stitch so I got a super big bandage to make my visit seem worthwhile and make me look like I was very pensive and pointing at things requiring some esoteric thought. I was sent on my way and told to redress it in two days. My spidey senses told me to insist that the nurse put Polysporin on the wound before she dressed it. She told me that the dressing was ‘stick proof.’ I forgot to ask what kind of sticks she meant, but it appears she meant the kind on trees, which wasn’t as relevant in the conversation we were having. Thus, the confusion.
It stuck again. This time, every time I tried to remove it, I felt like I was going to pass out or puke. This time, Mister woke up Daphne early on her second day of summer holidays to come with me to the hospital. Super fun. I was triaged quickly and had my finger in sterile water for more than 2 hours without the dressing moving. The nurse finally stuck my finger in an envelope of vaseline and the doctor told me he was going to freeze my finger to remove the dressing. He had on the ‘shit, I hate my job’ face when he said it. When he went to go look at what he was dealing with, he accidentally expunged my finger from its envelope and expunged the dressing leaving an indelible impression of the dressing pattern on the open wound. I would like to say that I didn’t flinch, scream or look at the doctor with venom. But, I can’t say that. I am going to say expunge again to insert some fun.
The nurse came in to dress the wound and tried to put the stick-proof dressing on it. After I told her I would not be in any forests and I would like the other type of dressing, she gave me the same, ‘shit, I hate my job’ face the doctor did. She needed to say expunge, but that didn’t work for her. She must have had a tough childhood.
I finally insisted that the nurse listen to me and put something goopy on my finger. She rolled her eyes and did it. So far, we are healing. Me, Shaggy, Daphne, my finger. There is still a part of my body in a landfill somewhere. I regret that I didn’t put it in the compost, because saving the world should have been a priority. It should always be a priority. I blame the wine.
So, let that be a lesson to you. Unless you are planning to expunge part of your body in the compost, make that two lessons, don’t drink and slice.