On a scale of 1-10, "1" being a paper cut, it was probably a 3-4. Nothing completely debilitating. But "stitches" was the first thing that went through my mind as the blood poured into the sink. Then I realized my hair was wet, I was wearing slippers, gym shorts, and a t-shirt, and how the heck was I supposed to get myself to the ER while holding pressure on my thumb?? Not to mention that the ER is 40 minutes away and was it really necessary for a cut like this??
That's when I miss Scott. He'd be able to look at it and tell me what to do. He'd be able to drive me, if necessary. But noooooooooooo.
Last fall, when I had strep throat and was sitting for 3 hours in the ER, Scott brought me a milkshake. After hours of "I think I'm dying" texts from me, he was finally able to leave work for 15 minutes (I'm serious. That's the kind of job he has.) to bring me a milkshake. Even that was something. Sure, I still had to sit there by myself and be miserable, but I knew he was within driving distance if need be.
So what did I do about my thumb? I wrapped it up in gauze and band-aids. But not before I ended up crying in the kitchen floor just like Amy Adams did in Julie and Julia.
The only difference what that I wasn't rolling in the aspic. That'd be really gross.
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| ...and that is one bandaged-thumb down for this thing called deployment... |
