You don’t get any pictures today, but I have a really good excuse, I swear.
Tuesday morning I was cleaning things up in our kitchen at work because our receptionist just quit and we’re lazy so we haven’t hired a replacement yet. I was unloading the dishwasher and reached up to put a cup on the top shelf, a shelf full of wine glasses (yes, we have wine and wine glasses at my office). Well, apparently, the shelf decided to give me a big FU because the shelf collapsed and it literally rained wine glasses on me. It actually seemed to happen in slow motion and my first thought was, “Maybe I can stop it?” And my second thought was, “This is going to really suck to clean up.” What I should have been thinking though is glass is really sharp and rather dangerous when it breaks.
Having good natural instincts and all, I raised my hands up to protect my face. When it was all over, one of my coworkers yelled, “What happened? Are you okay?” I was about to say yes until I looked down and saw the massacred remains of my pinkie finger on my left hand.
Okay, it wasn’t massacred, but it had several very deep and fairly big cuts. Actually, it looked like it had been flayed on one side (TMI?). I don’t know why my smallest finger decided to step up and be a champion, but it probably saved me from getting my nose cut off. Well done, pinkie.
I went down to an urgent care clinic where they made me wait for a good 30 minutes, and I kept grumbling that it would serve them right if I passed out on their floor from blood loss, then someone called my name and apologized because they didn’t know I was there for something that was actually urgent, even though I had my hand wrapped in about five rolls of paper towels.
This was my first time getting stitches and they numbed me up really well, so all in all it wasn’t too bad, except for the weird gross noise the stitches made (I didn’t look because I’d end up on the floor, so the noise was all I heard). At one point she said she was done and started putting everything away and then she sighed because she noticed another large gaping cut. I apologized for having another cut because I have one of those weird quirks where I must apologize for any inconvenience I cause, like having another cut that requires stitches.
When we were finally really all done, I asked her how many stitches I got so I could at least brag about it later. She answered, “A lot.” Oh, okay. Then I asked her if this meant I could get off of work for the day, and she said, “No, you should be fine to go back to work.” I didn’t even get any pain killers, and let me tell you, Tylenol does nothing for a massacred pinkie finger.
I think I got around 12-15 stitches (I only looked for a second before my mutilated flesh made me nauseated), which, if you ask me, is a lot for a very small finger. The doctor also commented on my long fingers (they aren’t that long) and I mentioned that I’ve been taking piano lessons. She said, “Oh yeah, I’ll just warn you, it’ll probably be at least a month until it’s not sensitive anymore since one of the cuts goes into the nail bed.” She said this and yet she still only offered me a prescription for Motrin.
Please feel free to send me your favorite cocktail recipes for soothing butchered flesh. At least I don’t need a prescription for vodka.