Legendary

The thing I have dreaded since childhood has finally happened--and I've lived to tell the tale!  On Friday night, minutes before friends were to arrive at our house for a prayer meeting for Berkeley, I sliced my finger open very, very deep with a very sharp pair of scissors and I found myself driving to the Emergency Room alone--apparently with my face as pale as a ghost.  If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook you know that I cut or peel myself accidentally all the time, but this was different.  This was not going to stay together on its own.

So there I was checking in at the same ER where, in times past, I checked in (alone) while in labor with my daughter, Caiden; I was in their system.  Thankfully, the ER was practically empty and everyone there was extraordinarily nice.  I felt like an idiot explaining my stupidity over and over again to each assistant, nurse, and doctor who interviewed me.  "I was trying to pry this piece off of our soap container, because it had yucky stuff underneath it, but my nails are weak, so I looked around for something to get under it and I stupidly grabbed a pair of hair cutting scissors to pry it off and once it did, it slipped and sliced into my finger."

Nurse types out, "Lacerated index finger on left hand by using scissors to open a jar."  AKA "You are so dumb."

Apparently my blood pressure was really high and the assistant couldn't decide why. "Are you nervous to be here?"

"No."

"Hhhmmm... Why is your blood pressure so high?"

"Maybe because I'm worried about how much this will cost? Or maybe because I know how my husband hates it when I cut myself.  He gets so frustrated because he wants me to be safe and I was worried how he would react when he saw me all maimed and bloody?" I thought.

I was eventually taken back to a room that was filled with moaning people separated by curtains (all of my previous visits to the ER have rendered me in my own room).  The guy next to me was freaking me out with his complaints of, "Dude! This is ridiculous. Ugh!" over and over again.  I thought he was going to get up and get violent.

I bided my time until an attendant came and offered me the special hospital service of a warm blanket (probably one of my favorite things) and tucked me in.  I felt a little weird since it was only my finger that was hurt, but still she shook out the blanket and covered me all up--legs and everything--and tucked me all in.  I then proceeded to read my Bible, check Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, and eavesdrop on the other patients prognosis'. I would then look up all the fancy words the nurses used to describe their patients' various diseases and maladies and "Googled" them to find out what was wrong with my co-inhabitants.  (I feel like my good friend, Liz, would have done the same thing had she been in my shoes...)

I passed the time, using all of these various endeavors and entertainments, quite nicely until the doctor was ready to have a go at fixing my finger (which by the way, kept throbbing and bleeding mercilessly).  Turns out, the doctor is from LA and usually does a five by five shift by flying up to Santa Rosa for five days, then flying back to LAX for five days, continually.  Crazy, huh? 

I have two main observations or ponderings to share with you concerning this recent stint at the big white house.  The first one is that I was extremely surprised to realize that I am now old enough to encounter doctors my own age when I visit the hospital.  Shocking indeed!  It is actually becoming quite common in my experience now; they are no longer all the age of my Dad or Grandpa.
The second observation brings me right back to what I eluded to in the first paragraph.  Things have finally come full circle for me.   As I sat on my hospital bed this Friday evening, I was suddenly flooded with long forgotten memories from childhood of always being worried I would need stitches (I got hurt a lot).  All of a sudden, grown-up me wondered, "OH YAH! I forgot I was scared of that! Should I be scared now?  Am I nervous?"

Well, it happened.  I got three stitches, and I probably could've used four, but I think it was too close to a nerve, so I only received three.  And you know what?  It wasn't bad at all.  But it was very strange to have finally needed and received stitches after all this time (stitches that weren't because of surgery, that is).  Sitting there in the hospital bed, it felt like I was a different person from that girl who feared stitches all those years ago.  I guess I have changed a bit from the unkempt, scraggly haired, tomboy I used to be when I was seven.  Maybe a bit, but not too much.

{the injury}


{the legendary stitches}

(Thanks for listening to my story, I so appreciate and am encouraged by all of you faithful readers!)