A Sliced Finger on Christmas Day
For our annual Christmas lunch, I assured my Beautiful Mystery Companion that daughter Mere, in for a visit, and I would handle the bulk of the cooking duties and give her a break. I bought smoked turkey and pulled pork from the brewpub/restaurant that Mere and her husband, Matt, own in Houston. She went to Hebert’s in Houston (still mourning that the local store closed) and brought several tubs of jalapeño crawfish dressing. My BMC bought a ham, and would cook green beans, while I would handle the mashed potatoes. Mere would make the salad.
My BMC prepared the ham the day before to lessen the oven load. I cut up the potatoes and then started to slice the ham Christmas morning. It included slicing directions so that the finished product would be aesthetically pleasing. I blame those directions for what happened next, since I was fiercely concentrating on carving the ham just right. I ended up slicing my left index finger.
My attempts to stanch the bleeding were to no avail. Being on blood thinners does not help, but it soon became obvious yet another trip to the emergency room was in my future. I called around and picked the one with the shortest wait time, just down the road. It is one of those boutique ERs, with doormen standing outside. This ER accepts my insurance, so that is where Mere and I went, me driving with a thick gauze pad on the injured digit.
The ER waiting room was beginning to fill up with folks coughing and hacking. I did my best not to breathe, and we hunkered down in the corner farthest away. That’s the worst thing about emergency rooms, all those sick people spreading germs. The receptionist told me I was the fifth kitchen knife injury of the day. At least I was not the only doofus.
I was hoping a butterfly bandage would be all that was needed, so we could get back to preparing Christmas lunch. Nope, the doctor said. You need stitches. The nurse who performed the procedure called herself the seamstress. She indeed was quite adept, though the deadening needle was unpleasant. As she prepared to sew, another woman came in, offering to give me and/or Mere a massage. Being offered a massage in an emergency room was first for me, but we politely declined. The massage therapist asked if she could watch, which was OK with me.
Mere and I continued to watch “A Christmas Carol” on the TV monitor while the nurse sewed my finger up. Eight stitches later, she was done and quite proud of her handiwork. I sincerely wished her a Merry Christmas.
On the way out, my finger wrapped thickly in gauze and secured with festive green tape, I was given a gift bag containing a water bottle with the ER’s logo. We returned home to a full house. My BMC, of course, had taken over cooking — dressing in the oven, turkey and pork reheated, potatoes boiling. I was able to mash the potatoes with one hand, but that was the extent of my contribution. I wasn’t even able to wash dishes, which is my usual task. I enjoy washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
I felt guilty about not being able to fulfill my promise to handle the bulk of the cooking. Mere pitched in to help clean up. By that night, I had shed the massive green gauze and wrapped it in a way that allowed me to wear a disposable glove and clean up after dinner.
The injury forced me to take a few days out from the CrossFit regimen, but I am now back. The stitches are out. The doctor warned me to take it easy, since if I reinjured that finger, it could be problematic. So I bought a pair of bionic weightlifting gloves online to provide the necessary protection. And, for now, I am staying away from sharp instruments. The rest of the unsliced ham went into a delicious soup that my BMC made a few days after Christmas.
And I cleaned up the kitchen.
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