Once upon an Easter morning, I damned near sliced my right index finger in half.
(Which, of all days to accidentally maim, destroy and/or amputate a body part, Easter seems a particularly safe and ideal choice to do it. As raeBird helpfully pointed out, “You can resurrect that finger. It will rise again.”)
But first, let’s briefly Tarantino our timeline to appreciate the glory of husband & I’s first-ever homemade Easter brunch:
chocolate-chip pancakes with sliced strawberries/bananas & turkey bacon & homemade hash browns & Canadian bacon
For the first Easter IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, husband & I were left entirely to our own holiday devices.
This found us in our happy, sun-soaked kitchen last Sunday morning, drizzling ketchup over hot-from-the-pan hash browns, slicing into stacks of gooey chocolate-chip pancakes, and clink-toasting our matching mason jars.
& then a wayward inanimate object proceeded to assault me.
Let me paint the picture for you:
I’m elbow-deep in a bubbly sink full of dishes, none the wiser that, inches away from my unsuspecting fingers, a polka-dotted glass (IT’S ALWAYS THE ONES YOU DON’T SUSPECT) was plotting against me.
It’s all sunshine through the window, my 90’s alternative station playing through the TV, husband all snuggled up on the couch with the Faces, idyllic as a Sunday morning can be.
Plunging my hands into the sink, my right pointer finger slides unceremoniously along the edge of a broken glass. Instinctively, I dart my hand out of the water, and already there’s that deep, dark, “oh shiiiiiiiiit“-color of blood pooling around my knuckle.
Somewhere between me telling husband to get me a towel and the moment I saw how deep the cut was, my body was like LULZ LET’S PASS OUT.
The ringing in the ears, the pink-and-purple sparkles moving in from my peripherals, the light-headedness… seriously, evolution, how is this helping me? WHY IS THIS STILL A THING?
As I’m sitting on our kitchen floor, still bleeding, alternating between keeping myself from blacking out under the kitchen table & being five and refusing to let husband look at the cut (because, you know, it might make it hurt more or something), it occurs to me:
I bled into the dish water and now we have to do the dishes all over again. Shitdammit.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I know I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m my mother’s daughter.
Never you mind that I’ve nearly sliced off the top of my finger and I’m bleeding profusely, because OMG! THE DISHES!
Meanwhile, husband—focused on the whole “my wife has seriously injured herself” deal—is all, “Babe, this needs stitches. Are you wearing a bra?”
Bless him so for covering the essentials before making plans to drag me out into the world for medical attention.
Knowing full well that stitches equate to needles, and not just needles, but needles going into my skin numerous times, I answered that no, I was not, in fact, wearing a bra.
In actuality, husband would’ve likely dragged me out anyway, bra-less or no, had it not been for the fact that (a) it was Easter, which meant (b) none of the walk-in, non-emergency health care clinics were open, and (c) going to the ER would literally have been at least a grand out of pocket, and thus I vehemently protested it. (If I’m going to spend thousands of dollars on medical care, it’s going to be for something DRAMATIC. Also, p.s., Universe, this is not a hint; I’m cool with just this current injury, thanks)
Thus, with our options being what they were, we did what all logical, intelligent-minded 27-year-olds do when faced with an emergency situation:
& then we texted a picture of my finger fillet to our nurse friend, Michelle (HAY GURL HAPPY EASTER CHECK OUT MY FLESH WOUND), and then husband made a rapid-fire run to Wal-Mart for emergency supplies. (ie, adhesive gauze, medical tape, Super Glue and Popscicle sticks)
In the meantime, given my new propensity for passing out, I was left with strict instructions to not leave the couch. By the way—am I the only one who relentlessly observes their own wounds? I stared that sucker down while waiting for my husband-in-shining-armor to return, as though my memorizing it would make it hurt less (nope), heal magically (yeah, no) or do something beyond exist and look hideous (disappointingly no).
Honestly, though, for violently surfing down the side of a polka-dotted glass, my cut could’ve been worse—it was definitely deep, but thankfully, it only spanned from the center of my first knuckle to a slight swoop just below the bend of the finger. Totally manageable.
“When I asked the guy at the pharmacy for tongue-depressor sticks, and he noticed what else I had with me, he was all, ‘Well, at least you don’t have dental floss and sewing needles. I’ve seen that before’,” husband announced upon his arrival home.
Google had assured me that, as long as I still had feeling in my finger and could move it (check & check), I hadn’t damaged any nerves, so I was totally down for going the DIY route instead of that whole “seek immediate medical attention” one. (Also, no needles were involved, so that was a bonus)
Living with my very own Survivorman, as I do, in no time we’d cleaned the wound, applied a heavy coating of Super Glue to help close the skin, ghetto-rigged a splint from a craft stick and wound tape, then rounded it all out with a loose wrap of adhesive gauze around the wound.
Bam part two. I was fixed.
& yes, I am fully aware that OMFG ASHLEY, SERIOUSLY? SUPER GLUE AND CRAFT STICKS? WHAT IN THE FRESH HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU
& yes, I know that OMFG ASHLEY YOU CAN STILL GET AN INFECTION YOU MIGHT DIE (which, now that Easter’s past, I’m super screwed with the whole “option for Resurrection” deal)
But here we are, just over a week after the fact, and my little badass finger is healing like a champ.
(Also, I am not dead, which is a bonus.)
Every night, I unwrap my finger—like a creepy little present that’s going to leave a wicked scar—and give it a few hours to “breathe” before gently cleaning it (which more or less amounts to rinsing, since it’s not oozing or anything), DIY-ing up a new splint, and re-wrapping it. We also put Steri-Strips over the cut, essentially encouraging the two sides of the slice to re-friend each other and not make any sudden, dramatic attempts to separate.
I swear to things, if I unwrap my finger one night, look at the wound and think to myself, SHIT IS GETTING REAL ON THAT THING, then absolutely, yes, I’d mad-dash to the nearest medical professional and be like, “Assist me.”
As it is? I’m mostly discovering that things like braiding, applying moisturizer and peeling a banana are really super freaking hard when the pointer finger of your dominant hand is out of commission.
So are activities like reading, operating door knobs, petting the Faces and combing my hair.
(Don’t believe me? I’ve got a 45-pack of craft sticks and a surplus of wound tape. Come over and I’ll craft you.)
But making an impromptu mustache? That’s pretty effortless.
it only occurred to me after the fact that i could’ve drawn a ‘stache on there. I’M NEW AT THIS INJURY, OKAY
- I live with the most bad-ass, bearded incarnation of Survivorman the world’s ever seen
- I probably would’ve been more open to the idea of needles if I hadn’t just been ruthlessly stabbed by them WITH NO DISCERNIBLE RESULTS not that long ago, so in a roundabout way, my future scar is actually all that other doctor’s fault
- Polka-dotted glassware is not to be trusted