Monday, July 30, 2007

This Probably Explains A Lot

Sunday afternoon while doing the dishes I sliced open my right hand pinky finger. Deep and nasty. I dropped a glass and was trying to catch it, but since my hands were wet, it slipped right through my hands and the glass shattered. My hand was still in motion and it got caught in the gaping, roaring maw of glass the kitchen sink had become. Ouch. Though the cut is quite deep and I ended up needing five stitches in my poor little pinky finger, fret not gentle reader, I can still type.

We live in a neighborhood chock full of really smart people and one of our neighbors who is a doctor dropped by and said, “yep, you need stitches, come over to my house in an hour and I’ll fix you up nice.” I did and he and his nurse practitioner wife did a nice sewing job, there at their kitchen bar. Hospital E.R.? We don’t need no stinkin’ hospital, man. Reha, ever the attorney, asked, “So does your malpractice insurance cover you for pro bono work you preform in your kitchen?” Nice one, babe. And it turns out that yes, his malpractice insurance does indeed cover kitchen bar medicine.

Anyway, Reha and I got to talking about how I’ve done quite a few dumb things to myself. And I noted that this was the first time in a long time that I got stitches and was able to see the doc do the stitches. Which, I have to say, it’s pretty weird and icky to watch a needle and thread pierce your flesh, but you don’t feel a thing. And, docs are really just glorified seamstresses when it comes down to doing that sort of thing. It’s all about the fancy knots apparently. Anyway, usually I’m getting stitches in my the neighborhood of my skull.

Let’s enumerate, shall we?

Incident #1: I was five or six and I ran down the hall and ran smack dab into the doorknob of the hallway closet that jutted into the hallway. Knocked me out for a sec, too. I didn’t realize I was bleeding rather profusely until the blood started running down my cheek. That’s when my mom screamed and off to the E.R. we scooted. Score: three stitches.

Incident #2: Fourth or fifth grade. I was running back from recess and I was running right behind this kid named Todd Johnson. He turned around to yell something at someone and I ran into his face. Specifically, I ran into his open mouth, his upper teeth in particular. I have a “half moon” shaped scar on my head from that little encounter. I also remember that though I was bleeding all over everything in the hallway, Todd was the one screaming his head off. Score: three stitches.

Incident #3: Fast forward to me as a seventeen year old snot. I t-boned a large pickup truck going about 60 M.P.H., not wearing a seltbelt and klonked into the windshield. Yeah, I’m a bright guy all right, though in my defense, the guys in the truck we totally drunk and had pulled out right in front of me, there was no way I could have missed them. It was a BIG truck and it was suddenly RIGHT THERE. Score: zero stitches, but I carried a few shards of windshield in my forehead for years, before they all worked their way out.

Incident #4: College at my girlfriend’s house. I was running from one room to another for who knows why and I jumped over something and through the doorway. Smacked my noggin on the top of the doorway. Knocked myself out for a little bit, too. Real smooth. Score: four stitches. And the doc who sewed me up asked about the half moon shaped scar, “Where’d you get that, son?” “Todd Johnson’s mouth, sir.”

Incident #5: Not really my fault, but I had a small cyst removed from the very back apex of my head. Score: three stitches

Incident #6: Car door bit me. I had parked on a slight incline and the car door of the Jetta decided it needed to close THAT VERY INSTANT and it shut with my head still in the car. Very ouch-y. And it hit me very close to my left eye. Six more inches and I ‘d be blind in that eye! Score: four stitches.

Incident #7: Another one of those cyst things. Though it’s possible that my brain is just rejecting the alien mind probes and they manifest themselves as weird little cyst things. Score: three stitches.

There are about six or seventeen other times I have thwacked my head, bled for a while, but decided not to run off the E.R. Like last week when I bumped mightily straight into a lamp fixture while stringing up some cat 6 wiring at work. Head wounds bleed a lot, you know, even the ones that don’t need actual medical attention.

So blunt force trauma to the head over multiple sessions might go a long way toward explaining certain aspects of my personality, that’s all I’m saying.

Jon scribbled this mess on 07/30/07 at 12:04 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

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