Given my natural talent for hurting myself, skydiving, bungee jumping and crossing a road in Vietnam are activities best left to others. I often have some phantom bruise on my body earned from running into an invisible wall and the not so invisible ones.
Once in my apartment in LA, I stepped on a pile of newspapers that were on the floor, managed to lose my balance and fell backward, smacking my head on the floor. I lay there for a few moments. My cats crawling over me. . .mewing in that, ”Oooo! You’re down on the floor. . . are you dead yet so we can eat you?” way that cats have. And I knew. I saw with absolute clarity that this, someday, was exactly how I was going to bite it.
You read it here first.
If stubbing your toes were an Olympic Sport, I would be the Nadia Comaneci.
You don’t believe me?
Guess how I broke my ankle eight years ago? (Those that know, pipe down.)
Answer: Walking down the pavement (sidewalk) in Greenwich Village.
And so. Because Dear Reader, random, freakish injury is something I am terribly well versed in, it so happened in the wee small hours of the morning, I won a trip to the A&E (ER for my American readers).
Last night I had some people over for dinner. It was a no partner’s thing and Stuart was a doll and didn’t raise a fuss when I kicked him out of the house as it gave him a chance to give his father his Father’s Day present. (I don’t normally make it a habit to arrange dinner parties he doesn’t get to attend. He was supposed to still be in the US but had cut his trip short and come home early.)
Had ten people over which is always a bit of a military operation cooking for that many. Especially when you have a mix of low carbers, vegetarians and normal folks that are quite happy to eat whatever you give them.
Was a really fun evening. Wish I could have even more people over but space and my culinary ability is tapped out methinks at 10 bodies.
I had training to do the next morning so I didn’t let myself get too tipsy. Just tipsy enough.
All guests we gone by 1:30 and our cleaner would be here in the morning so I needed to do the dishes before she arrived and I left for work. I decided to clean before bed.
And so it happened that at 2am when I was three-fourths of the way through the dishes, I managed to gash the top of my right index finger. In the 10 seconds from it happening to my grabbing a paper towel to apply pressure, my kitchen looked like the Manson family had attacked me.
Okay. I could just put a plaster (band-aid) on it and carry on. Sure. I pulled the paper towel away to see if the bleeding stopped. Blood spurted like The Black Knight’s flesh wound.
Great.
Where do I go?
I called Stuart at his parents to ask for advice but he didn’t hear the phone. Don’t blame him. It’s two in the bloody morning.
What to do? I have zero clue where the closest hospital is so I dial 999 (911)
“Is this an emergency?”
“Well. No. Not as such. But I am bleeding and that’s not so good is it?”
She gives another number. I call. They give me the name to the hospital, St. George’s, which as soon as I heard the name I thought, “Oh yeah. I knew that.”
Take a mini cab the mile and half to the hospital (£7.50. Jerk. But I was too tired to fight his over charging me. I should have threatened to bleed on his backseat.
They look at it rather quickly. Tell me I will need stitches. And then I wait. And wait. And wait some more. What was odd is there were only two other people in the waiting room.
When they finally looked at me, the kid (had to be early 20’s tops) that fixed me up was great and I was sent on my way around 6. He was sweet and told me I was brave for taking the shot so well when he was numbing up my hand. (Which. Ok. I admit it. . . warmed me to him. Ooo! Look. I’m brave. But really how else are you supposed to take it. Sure those shots burn like a mother, but what choice do you have?)
I had to cancel my training this morning since I had zero sleep. Giving a class on Giving and Receiving Feedback would probably have not been a good thing.
The odds are high, that when my death (that will come from some random fluke accident like something out of a French farce) will be very funny to everyone watching.
Except to me. But hey. Feel free to giggle as I collect my Darwin Award.
June 19th, 2008 at 8:49 pm
given how naturally clumsy and hapless i am, i think it’s positively amazing i’ve never needed stitches… (((touch wood!)))
but at least you didn’t have a co-pay