So last night, I remember that the light bulb in the hallway needed to be changed. I begin to unscrew the lampshade, and I start feeling the shade getting wobbly. Before I have a chance to tighten the screw again, it begins to fall—I thrust my hand to cradle it into my hand but the balance is off—the shade flips over to the wall, and since I moved too fast, shatters, in my hand. I look down to see shattered glass all over the hallway floor, and some dull pain in my right index finger from bumping against the wall. I look up at the index finger, making sure that I didn’t get cut. I stare in bewilderment to see a 6-inch piece of glass sticking out of it. It doesn’t hurt like a scrape or cut usually would—it just kind of throbs a bit like a dull pain. I pull the shard of glass out, and apparently I’m Moses tapping a rock in the desert from which a geyser shoots out water. Except this time, it’s my own blood shooting out, dripping the faux-wood floorboards.
My initial reaction? “CRAP! The deposit!! I need to get this cleaned up! How much can I clean up until I pass out?!” Yes that’s how I know I’ve moved to California- all I care about is getting the deposit back for when I move, rather than my own safety. I quickly grab the first clean shirt I find (unfortunately it happens to be my favorite OU shirt ever) and wrap it around, then raise my hand above heart level.
In the meantime I call my mom and stay as calm as possible. Just a nice easygoing lax conversation, that’s what I’ll do. Easy breezy… that’s the style I’ll need to convey.
“Heeyyy, ma… how’s it goin? Yeah? Really? Oh cool! So listen, got a little bit of bad news- I cut myself on some glass here… yeah… oh nothing too much, just called 911 to be on the safe side though… uh huh. No it’s fine! I feel great! Just calling to let ya know. And actually the paramedics are here so I’m gonna go now. Great! Good talking to ya!”
It goes well; she seemed to take it well. I make sure to have my wallet, keys, and phone. The three critical things in going to the hospital- insurance, a way to get back in the house, and access to Twitter. I come out and greet them, and they take a look at my hand— one of them says, “Oh it’s not too bad, it’s actually really small.” Now I don’t know why but this kind of irked me. I’m not really the type to go to the doctor, much less a hospital, for minor things. And this guy has the nerve to say it’s really small? Alright then hotshot! Then fix it now! So I can go back inside and have my pot roast and lasagna!
So two paramedics start working on my hand, and a third rather portly fellow asks, “Do you really need an ambulance? Because if not, I can send it back. If you can take yourself to the hospital then no problem, I can send the ambulance back.” Wait— I’m losing blood by the quart and you want me to drive myself to the hospital? What kind of paramedics are these? I ask if they think I should, and he responds, “Hey no pressure—if there’s no one who can take you then we can take you. But I can send it back now if you’d like.” I stutter a bit, and he continues, “How about now? You want me to send ‘em back?”
So what exactly DOES count as a valid reason to go in an ambulance? I get it, if my finger’s sliced clean off then maaaybe I’ll get an ambulance. If I’m having a heart attack too—but apparently this doesn’t warrant it. Anyway I get to the hospital which happens to look like it’s something from the Dharma Initiative. All the equipment is from the early 70’s, and there’s a stench of non-chalance about the place. It’s disorganized, and the look of disdain is running rampant through all the employees’ eyes. When finally the ER doctor shows up, he’s as cold and non-personable as can be. Wonderful. I felt like I was in a 3rd World Country. By this point my roommate has arrived, and I’ve already told my parents what’s going on and how it’s completely fine—there’s not much to worry about. Of course if I actually believed what I said it might have had more weight, but you see—I have a fear of needles. And I knew that this would require stitches. So it was hard for me to convince them fully.
An hour after my initial consult Dr. Lee comes back in, and puts my arm on a rolling trolley so that he can start suturing it. He takes off about 3-4 yards of blood-stained cotton that the paramedics had put on there, and of course—I start gushing onto the trolley. He begins squeezing and probing the inside of the cut with his fingers with more force than was necessary. He tells me, “This may sting a bit—I’m gonna numb it up,” and proceeds to insert a needle into the wound. My finger is throbbing with pain as an acid burn courses through my veins. He asks the male nurse for rubber tubing, and he proceeds to make a tourniquet around the finger to cut off all blood flow. NICE. So that means that in a few minutes, if he’s not careful- and he certainly doesn’t seem like cares- my finger will be dead forever. He continues injecting the local anesthetic, and I’m writhing in pain.
“HOLD YOUR HAND STILL,” he yells. I can barely FEEL my hand, much less tell what I’m doing with it, especially because I’m not looking at it. “I’m…. trying….,” I manage to tell him through clenched teeth.
“HOW ABOUT THIS? YOU FEEL ANYTHING SHARP? YOU FEEL PAIN THAT’S SHARP?”
“NO it just HURTS when you squeeze it so hard!”
“Yeah yeah I know it hurts- but SHARP pain like glass. I’m trying to find if there’s any more glass in there—so can you feel anything?” I shake my head no, and he gives a final tenderizing blow to the finger like I’ve done many a time with a cold steak. He proceeds to start stitching it up, but by this time the tourniquet has already proved to be ultra-efficient: the pressure is building up and it’s killing me that I’m not getting any circulation. I start writhing again, and he yells at me yet again to stop moving.
I struggle, “The pressure—it’s getting too much… it hurts.”
“Yeah, yeah it hurts. Give me a couple of minutes I’m almost done stitching you up. Then I’ll release the blood back into your finger. Stop moving and talking.”
I want to kill the b****d. I resist doing so thankfully, and I can write this instead of being in prison for assaulting an ER doctor.
“There. We done.” And he releases the tourniquet and blood gushes into my finger—causing an overwhelming and delicious feeling of released pressure and tingling.
There’s some x-rays done to make sure that there’s no glass still stuck in the finger, and I’m released home. I don’t think I see the doctor for more than 30 seconds after—he doesn’t explain how to take care of my finger or what I need to do. Just scribbles a prescription for antibiotics and barks at me to go see my regular doctor to get my stitches taken out and if there’s further swelling or pain.
So that’s my finger story.