So there was a thing that happened to me and the thing is that I put my arm through some plate glass. There was a screen door swinging shut in front of me, and apparently my kickboxing instructor has done a great job of teaching me how to identify an opponent’s weakest points, because I straight-armed that door in exactly the right place to make it shatter. I watched it go, saw a huge piece dangling right above my arm and thought, Oh, this could be bad, and then it fell, guillotine style, and yes, it was bad.
Now, I’ve always kind of mocked heroes in movies who get shot and stabbed, then run a lot and win big prizes and often have sex shortly thereafter. I’m like, um no, that person is in pain. They are not doing any of those things. On the other hand I’ve been told that being cut by a very sharp object doesn’t hurt, and have always been somewhat dubious of that fact.
I’m here to tell you it doesn’t hurt. In fact, it’s so misleadingly doesn’t hurt that you think you’re just fine until you hear the blood dripping off your elbow. I grabbed the boyfriend and bled through three kitchen towels, all while he told me not to look at it (I didn’t tell him I already had, and found it fascinating) and tried to find the keys.
The conversation on the drive to the ER went like this:
B/F: How are you feeling?
Me: I’m fine.
B/F: Okay, keep your arm up.
Me: I am. I didn’t know Family Dollar was open this late.
B/F: Are you sure you’re okay?
Me: I’m fine.
B/F: Keep breathing.
Me: Um, okay.
Then my mom texted because I had texted her saying that I was headed to the ER and could she please come over and put all the pets out because I didn’t want them running through broken glass. That conversation went like this:
Mom: WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: I broke the door with my hand.
Mom: WHERE ARE YOU?
Me: Almost to ER. I’m fine.
Mom: THERE IS BLOOD ALL OVER IT’S RUNNING DOWN THE CUPBOARDS (then she followed that up with heart emoticons. I don’t know if she was asking if it was arterial blood or letting me know she loves me).
Me: Yeah I know, there’s a bunch in the sink too.
Mom: MINDY YOU ARE NOT FINE.
I get to the ER and walk in, arm in the air, bloody dishtowels dangling, and am immediately redirected to registration even though boyfriend told the nurse I needed attention right away. She said since I walked in under my own power and could talk fine they’d rather I’d do the paperwork first. He tried to explain to them that I would probably walk and talk even if I’d been decapitated, and I was already done with the paperwork by the time he finished. (I did drop some nice big blood spatters on it to make a point though).
Got a room. Got a bed. Got my feet up. Got comfortable.
Then they took away the dishtowels and the nurse said. “Um…” and left, to reappear with a doctor who had me do some hand exercises and told me to stop looking at the wound while I did.
Dr: Because you’re cut down to the muscle. I can see it moving.
Me: Really? *leans forward*
Dr: Seriously, you shouldn’t look.
Me: Too late.
B/F: I have no idea how you can be so calm right now.
Nurse: Her blood pressure hasn’t even gone up.
I tried to get the boyfriend to take a picture of the open wound, but he refused. The doctor stitched me up (two internal, twelve external) and asked what I do for a living, and I explained and he just shook his head and said that made a weird kind of sense.
I was back home in 90 minutes, cleaned, stitched, and honestly, a little bored. My mom had cleaned up all my blood and the shattered glass, so there was nothing for me to do except go to bed, which seemed somewhat anticlimactic. But I did.
So I learned something. You really can be badly injured, lose a lot of blood, and maintain an even strain. I didn’t defeat the bad guys after being wounded, but I did fill out a lot of insurance paperwork quickly and efficiently, so there’s that.
And no, there’s no pictures for this blog entry. I’ve been told some people don’t like to look at injuries.
I don’t understand.