Humor is also a way of saying something serious. - T. S. Eliot

Monday, August 30, 2010

As I Lay Bleeding

Bleeding, I collapsed and laid at the top of the stairs.  Thoughts raced through my mind. Should I call Dave? What about NiNi? She's in nursing school, they've probably covered mortal wounds by now. 

Will anyone come to my funeral? Dave and the girls will, probably the rest of my family, too. My cousin might make it, but only if her dog doesn't have a radiation treatment scheduled for that day. It'll definitely be an open-casket. I am fascinated by looking at dead things, and since I'd be dead, why not indulge others in the ability to stare without fear of being caught.

Sophia and Ella watched me, wondering what I'd do next, and, I think, wondering if I was joking. "I need a band-aid. Please, come help me." I held my finger and could feel the blood puddling in between my non-injured fingers.  Sophia, my mini-me, came up the stairs. Her 4 year-old hands doing their best to pry the band-aid from it's sterile sleeve. Holding her syrup-y finger on the cotton-pad of the band-aid, she was ready to put the band-aid on.  "I'll get an ice-pack," called Ella. The daredevil of the family, she figured an ice-pack was the best bet. 

I nixed the band-aid, surely it wouldn't be big enough. Fifteen minutes had passed and with the bleeding finally stopped, I wrapped my finger in a washcloth. I proceeded to help the girls work on a project, dressed all three of them, and somehow, managed to put in three pony-tails and two flower barrettes.  All with my finger wrapped in it's pink, bulky, 7X7 inch cloth.

The time came for me to wash my face, put on my make-up, and style my hair, which includes applying four styling products.  My hairdresser pays for her children's preschool tuition off the commission from me alone.  Time to lose the washcloth and face the issue head on.

While trying to open a bag of chocolate chips, I had slit the top of my finger with the serrated knife.  As I let the wash-cloth fall to the floor, I caught a glimpse of my injury. Any wound in any person will make me woozy. And I'm not above passing out. I have spent time unconscious on the floor after changing my earrings. I just can't handle openings in one's body that weren't put there by biology. It's a wonder I made it through two c-sections. It took me a whole year just to look at my surgical scar following Sophia and Ella's birth.

I knew, from my accidental glimpse, just what size of band-aid would be enough to cover my wound.  I dug through the box. I ended up having to use a medium size band-aid, the girls had used up all the smalls.  I slathered antibiotic ointment onto the band-aid, and, daring myself to look at the wound, I was a bit surprised at it's size.  The slice on my finger looked more like a small hole, similar to that of a finger-prick from the doctor. Pleased with this finding, I cancelled the online order I had placed for my casket.

I just might survive, after all.