The Long Drawn-Out Story (Part Two)

(Part One)

I get up on Monday morning, full of confidence for the day ahead. Except, my hand fucking hurts. For serious.

I shake it off, and go do the whole showering/morning ablution sort of thing. Once all of that is done, I decide to go ahead and change the dressing on my finger that morning, since I will be at work until about 6:00. Only, I can't physically get the bandage off. It is stuck to the cut, and I am doomed. Finally, after softening up the attached part with some water, and a little intense pain, I get free of the accursed adhesive. And omigosh, does it look horrible.

Sort of how it looked yesterday, only infinitely more, ...well pale and gross. And also, again it is gushing blood like no other. Plus, this time, it hurts. Uncontrollably hurts. And again, I can't bind the damn thing. I then realize that maybe (like always) Devon was right and I should have gone to the hospital. I decide to bow to her wisdom about 14 hours too late, and recruit Frank from his sleeping to come bind me up so's I can drive to the hospital without getting blood all over the TOM. Not only does he get me fixed up, he even comes with to the hospital, to make sure I don't die in transit. It's touching, really.

The hospital is only like 5 minutes from my house, which is nice, but the emergency room is hidden unlike anything else in the world. At one point there are literally three signs at the same stoplight pointing in three different directions, each of which says Emergency. Eventually we find two signs which seem to correspond and then hoof it down from the parking lot to the emergency room entrance, through winding miles of construction. And did I mention that it is also raining during this time too? Awesome.

Considering my previous experience with emergency rooms, this time moved pretty smoothly, though. Get triaged in short order. (I got to read the nurses description of my condition when she got up to answer the phone. Apparently I am 'mature' and 'cooperative' and 'healthy for [my] age.' Score! I also apparently 'denied [my] injury was the result of any domestic violence.' Meaning, I guess, that Frank didn't knife me for not cleaning the kitchen? I dunno.)

They send me over to Minor Emergency, saying that since it has been more than 12 hours, they probably won't stitch anything up, they'll just clean the wound. I am cool with this, so long as they do something about the wild pain running down my hand. I get called into the exam room pretty quickly after that and I leave poor Frank to the mercy of the waiting room and that hideous Rachel Ray talk show that they've got going on the television nowadays.

Once in the exam room, they pry off the bandage I've been using to staunch the flow of blood, to my unending yelps. Because that shit hurt like nothing else. Once it was clear, the nurse wiped it clean and told me to leave it untouched on this pile of gauze so that the doctor could come in and examine it in its natural state. I am unconvinced of the wiseness of this plan, as already blood is starting to gush, but eventually relent.

By the time the doctor gets in to look at it, the gauze (and the pile of white sheets the gauze is resting on) are soaked through with blood. I must look a little jittery because the doctor is all "Are you nervous or something?"

I don't know, YES, maybe? What with the LAKE OF BLOOD on the table in front of you?

Only I was a little more civil in my response.

She decides, though, that it definitely needs to be stitched up, number of hours be damned, and tells me to wait for the nurse to come back and set up the sterile table for her stitching. Oh, and no pressure on the wound.

Seriously, I start to actively wonder how much blood is contained in my body. Because I lost a lot yesterday and there goes a whole bunch more right now. And if I faint in the exam room in front of a bunch of medical professionals over a small cut on my little finger? I may never fully recover from the humiliation.

Eventually the sterile field is created, I get a tetanus shot (because you can never have too many of them apparently), and the stitches get stitched. With a minimal amount of pain, surprisingly; she numbed my hand up but good. Final tally: 7 stitches covering maybe two inches on my finger, sort of curving around at the top like a really angry backwards question mark.

I make it into work by 11:00, although my hand is bandaged up with enough gauze to make a mummy jealous and I can't type or do much of anything, really.

The following days are easier, since I get to remove the gauze and just use Band-aids, but the hand is still basically useless. Have you ever tried to type without moving your pinky finger? It's practically impossible. And of course, I am left handed, so writing is a joy. My handwriting looks like it was done by 3rd grader, or one of those robots that hold pencils in their little claws. Overall, an awesome week.

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Update, the current: I'm back in full control of both hands and the stitches get to come out on Friday. Still ridiculously unpleasant, but at least I can function in most normal settings and can actually type with only mild pain.

I would like to say that some sort of lesson has been learned from the entire ordeal, but the only thing I can come up with is "Never do the dishes." Which seems like a bad moral.

Maybe "Don't Be a Dumbass?" That sort of works.

Tune in later, when I reveal how my heart got stomped on, practically minutes following my horrible hospital ordeal. Oh, my poor fragile emotions!