I cut off my left hand. Making Caesar Salad. I thought, “If The Viking doesn’t come in the house soon I may not make it”. I try to remember what I’m supposed to do in this situation. Do I elevate the arm? Tie a tourniquet? Both? Should I put my severed hand in the fridge?
I decided on the ‘laying on the floor and raising my arm toward the ceiling option’. I should have wrapped something around the stump; liquid is susceptible to gravity. Laying there, waiting for The Viking and reflecting on my injury, I wondered if I should be trusted with sharp and pointy objects any more. I did stab myself just last week after all.
I hear The Viking slam the garage door, which means he’s heading for the house. I yell, “SCULLERY MAID DOWN!!”
The door opens. “Did you say something?” he asks mildly.
Me: Call the Paramedics!!
The Viking: What?! Where are you?
Me: I’m on the floor! CALL 911!!
The Viking walks around the end of the table: What the fuck are you doing?
He gets on the floor beside me, to comfort me mostly, but also to get a better look at the vacancy at the end of my arm.
Me: I’ve cut off my hand!
The Viking: What? Your hand is right there.
Me: Should we put it in the fridge? Maybe doctors can reattach it.
The Viking: You didn’t cut off your hand. You just have a small cut.
Me: I think I’m in shock. I feel cold all over. Am I going to die?
The Viking: Probably not. I’ll just get a Band-aide and some Peroxide.
Me: Shouldn’t you be elevating my legs or something? Geez! Who’s the patient here? And you haven’t even made me comfortable with a pillow under my head. I would put a pillow under your head.
The Viking: Would it make you feel better if I propped your legs on a chair?
Me: It is the proper thing to do under these circumstances. My vision is starting to blur. Is that normally what happens when someone is dying?
The Viking: I’ll be right back.
Me: DON’T LEAVE ME! Oh God! I can’t feel my legs!
The Viking: Oh, for fucksakes!
Me: Tell the kids I love them. I leave all my earthly possessions to you. Keep my ashes on the fireplace so we can be scattered together.
The Viking: You don’t want me to marry again? You don’t love me so much that you want me to find happiness after you’re gone?
Me: No! Why would I want that? What if you like her better? What if she dumps me in the garbage? And then tells you is was an accident?
The Viking: That would never happen.
Me: Owwwwww!!! What the fuck!?
The Viking: It’s just a little Peroxide.
Me: Shouldn’t you be calling 911?
The Viking: I don’t think we need them. Seriously, this is barely a paper cut. See? I only needed the little Band-aide.
Me: I don’t think I can finish the Caesar Salad. I’m very woozy.
That’s when The Viking pulled down his pants, right in the middle of the kitchen, and showed me his ass! Yes! His Ass!
Me: Are you comparing your ass bruise to my severed hand?!
The Viking: It’s a paper cut! I think you can still finish supper!
My Wound
Epilogue: I did finish supper – Chicken Caesar Salad – and there was almost zero blood in it. It was also very, very good. However, I didn’t do the dishes because everyone knows you shouldn’t submerse a severed hand in dishwater.
Glad that you managed to come through your medical treatment with flying colors. I hope the recuperation period doesn’t take too long.
There was a shocking lack of concern from The Viking, so I have no choice but to just soldier on. Thank you for your support, Bun. That’s what REAL friends do. :o)
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So happy you liked the post. :o) I checked out your page and am sorry to admit I don’t speak your language.