I sliced off a chunk of my thumb!
About a year ago it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t been to the doctor in over a decade. I made all the necessary calls and set up all the appointments for various checkups and whatnot, including going to a lab to get some blood work done. While getting my blood drawn, I nearly passed out. Apparently, the sight of my own blood freaks me out. When my eyes make contact with the inside red stuff flowing outside of me, I immediately become pale, I break into full-body sweats, and come very close to passing out. In the words of my mom when I told her that this happens to me when I see my own blood, “you need to man up.” I agree, but that shit ain’t happening anytime soon. Case in point:
That’s my right thumb. I sliced off a large chunk of it last night using a mandolin — not the music kind; the kitchen kind. I love to cook, and kitchen gadgets, no matter how stupid, are an obsession of mine. I have a little motorized whipping thingy that’s supposed to be used for frothing hot milk for lattes. I use it for chocolate milk. How mandolins work is, you get the vegetable you want to cut into perfect slices, stick one end of it to a safety handle, and then run the veggie through the extremely sharp blade positioned along the body of the device. That safety handle is there for a reason: safety, I presume. But I don’t play by the rules. I needed carrots sliced for an Italian sausage soup. Why use a knife when I have a badass mandolin? Safety handle? Pfft! That will only delay soup-to-mouth gratification.
So, I sliced and sliced until I sliced off a chunk of thumb meat. I screamed “fuck” a lot, and blood gushed. I ran my thumb under the faucet, which made me scream some more, louder fucks. There was blood everywhere. It was a nightmare. Within seconds, all color vanished from my face. Like I had been splashed with a bucket of water, sweat covered me from head to toe. I felt faint, and, if not for my girlfriend using her body to squeeze me up against the counter in a way that in any other context would be grounds for a sexual harassment lawsuit, I would have collapsed.
When I nearly passed out during the blood test, the nurse (who very kindly kept her mouth shut and withheld all instincts to call me a pussy) placed a cotton swab soaked with rubbing alcohol under my nose. The sting of the alcohol grabbed the world by the shoulders and demanded that it stop spinning. As I was passing out after the mandolin incident, I stumbled to the couch with a paper towel firmly pressed against my thumb to stop the bleeding (it wouldn’t stop for a few hours). Somewhere along the way I told my girlfriend to get me some alcohol. This next part may seem like a clichéd joke but it actually happened: she grabbed a bottle of gin. I love that my girlfriend thinks I’m a badass action movie hero who drowns pain with booze straight from the bottle, even as the events currently unfolding before her eyes clearly show that I’m more the Damsel In Distress than anything.
She soon figured out what I meant, and the alcohol swab she stuffed under my nose leveled me out. She later checked the mandolin for the missing piece of thumb. She couldn’t find it, only some sliced carrots and a lonely slice of potato.
I hadn’t sliced any potatoes. That was my thumb chunk, so cleanly sliced she mistook it for an ingredient in our meal.
After a few painful hours in an Urgent Care center (made easier with some delicious codeine), I was patched up. I didn’t need any stitches because when you’ve got a chunk of you missing, there really isn’t much to stitch. They fill in the whole like it’s a pothole and tell you not to be dumb anymore.
I shouldn’t be writing this. I should have my right arm in a sling to prevent any further bleeding (doc said it could still gush blood for the next couple of days if I’m not careful). But the running theme here is not following directions, so, yeah. Type type type type type ajhdajhsaushdkahdjakshdkajdh look at me! I’m typing with my hand down as blood rushes to my thumb!
OH GOD! THE BLEEDING!