Eating better was supposed to be good for my health.
Attempting to get a jump on the day, I stood at the counter at 7:30 Tuesday morning shredding lettuce. I prefer my lettuce shredded, not torn. I find torn lettuce quite bothersome as it does not fit neatly into a bowl, onto a fork, or into my mouth. I was deep in thought, contemplating the superiority of shredded lettuce when I heard little feet stomp into the kitchen. I turned my head to see what the owner of the feet needed. The lettuce shifted. I continued shredding. Oh shit.
This is the embarrassing part where I was swearing in front of my child.
Never one to pick up on the obvious, Nathan asked what happened. Between winces, I told him I cut myself. Blood was pouring out of a half inch wide by half inch deep gash I made in my thumb. I grabbed paper towels to apply pressure. Thankfully, the knife, lettuce, and cutting board were blood free because I would have been really pissed if I had ruined my lunch.
“Mommy, I was going to ask you for another show and more granola, please, but are you OK?”
“Thanks for asking, buddy. I’m fine. I’ll get your stuff but then I think I might need to go to the hospital.” I mentally patted myself on the back for remembering to praise him for his empathy.
I handed him the box of granola, queued up another Adventure Time,and went to find my husband. Armed with a bandage and a towel, I found some shoes and headed for the door, but not before grabbing my coffee. Yes, my coffee. Gaping hole in my hand or not, I need my coffee.
The child had already forgotten what happened and asked where I was going. He was horrified to learn that I wouldn’t be able to walk him to school. Apparently the empathy was fleeting.
After a 75 minute wait at the “urgent” care facility, I saw the nurse. She asked if I thought I needed stitches. I resisted the urge to respond that I was paying them to make that determination. She doused my wound with peroxide and betadine, then called me a wuss for saying it hurt. I eventually saw the doctor who informed me that she didn’t think I needed stitches, but she’d use the fancy steri-strips to close up my digit, then wrap it.
Another man, whom I assumed worked there, came into the room. He looked at my hand, sucked wind through his teeth, and said helpful things like, “Wow, that’s deep!” and “Oof, I bet that hurts!” He shook his head a few times, too. He asked how it happened and I told him I was making a salad. He seemed genuinely surprised when he asked if I was a chef and I said that I was not.
The doctor jumped in. “Was the knife rusty?”
Yes, I use a rusty knife to cut lettuce. Doesn’t everyone?
The doctor performed a quick abdominal exam, mentioning that they make her do that for everyone who comes in. I was confused but I thanked her, because I have manners.
Relieved to finally be on my way, two long hours since the ordeal began, I thought about what I learned. My kid isn’t as egocentric as I thought, I would be wise to not find a reason to return to the urgent care facility, and I may want to look into the bagged lettuce for future salads.