I was cooking. Okay. I was actually slicing oranges using a mandoline. To put in a fruity drink.
But it was for other people. So I actually bled for other people. (I made blood oranges. HAHAHA.)
And I sliced a large portion of my thumb off. Or almost off. It still hung on by some skin.
I screamed and put it under water and screamed some more. Blood was pooling in the sink. I made my son cry.
I ran out to the car and opened the garage and tried to get a hold of my husband and let the dog out and then called a friend to take the youngest to soccer. He couldn’t get the dog in the house so I drove to my husband’s office with the dog while keeping my thumb wrapped in tissues and above my heart because I remember something about keeping limbs bleeding above the heart. Or was it below?
My husband numbed my thumb (I screamed for that. It hurt.) and then he stitched it. (I screamed for the stitch in the area that hadn’t been fully numbed.)
I went and got dinner after because I hadn’t really eaten that day and I was really nauseous. REALLY nauseous. And I needed to head to the church to help with the drinks I was in charge of for the evening. (The dog had peed on the recipes. I decided just to email them to people.)
The girl at the register asked what I’d done and I told her I sliced my finger and got 8 stitches. She was shocked I had to get so many stitches. I remarked, “Well, I did get it done by a dentist.” She didn’t reply to that.
This is the second time my husband has fixed a cooking accident for me. And neither time did I get nitrous. I’m a warrior.
You may be wondering what could be the pro of all of this and I shall tell you.
When I showed up at the office with my bloodied thumb, the first thing my husband said was, “Maybe we should start ordering out more.”