…So anyhow, there’s an awful lot of stuff on display atop my old piano. Lots to clean and shine…
But that’s OKAY! With my task clearly mapped out, I experience a surge of newfound confidence, poise and… dare I say ?…panache! Industriously, I fill up a cardboard box with all of the crystal candleholders and shlepp the works into the kitchen, plunking it down next to the sink. I fill the sink with warm, soapy water and pick out a favorite crystal votive as my first candidate. TIME TO GIT TA WORK!
Hmmmm….There’s a lot of built-up wax at the bottom of this baby. Ridiculous amount, really – good thing I’m doing this important project because honestly, that much extra wax can be dangerous when burning candles…WOW… it’s really caked in there…
So I grab, what else?… a STEAK KNIFE and set about piercing thru the waxy buildup. And I would say almost IMMEDIATELY, the brutal, serrated dagger powers RIGHT THRU THE BOTTOM OF THE GLASS and DIRECTLY INTO MY PALM.
“Uhhhhhh……AAAAAAGGGGGH”. I stare down at this mess in total shock. The glass of the votive candle holder falls away, having split neatly into two halves. All that is left is my hand with a steak knife stuck in it. And here’s the best part. The tip of the knife is actually protruding OUT of the OTHER SIDE OF MY HAND.
In a sickly and horrific dreamlike state, I YANK the knife out. OH, THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN - THE PAIN. But even worse… THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD - THE BLOOD.
The blood the spurting all over the kitchen. Hitting the walls, the floor, the dog, the cat. It’s like a bad Monty Python skit. Without thinking (and what else is new?), I plunge my hand into the soapy, warm sink. The foamy water turns a deep, rich burgundy so quickly that I almost lose consciousness. I am vaguely aware of my own voice coming from somewhere: “O no O god O no Ogod O no Ogod O NO….”
I have to admit that up until this particular incident, I was simply not well-versed in the area of home emergency first-aid, at least the art of performing it on myself while I’m bleeding to death all alone in my kitchen. I mean, I’ve gotten pretty good SINCE then, but during THIS escapade, things were just not looking very good.
However, why in hell I decide to call my mother (instead of 911) at this moment MUST have some kind of deep-seated psychological implications, honestly. I mean, she lives clear across town, does not drive and quite frankly has a few panic issues of her own. But CALL MOM I do, covered in my own gore and hyperventilating to the point of incoherence.
Mom: “HELLO?” She already sounds really anxious, but that’s normal for Mom. See, that’s the thing – Mom always answers the phone sounding as if she’s expecting the worst news. In fact, I joke her about it. So for a change, this time she’s way ahead of the game.
I’m trying to control my breathing, but I know what I sound like: “Ma….I stabbed myself…”
Mom: “WHAT? WHO IS THIS?” I’m her only daughter, but whatever…
Me: “Ma, it's me. I was cleaning a candle and I’m bleeding – the knife went right thru my hand…” My voice sounds faint to me and I'm starting in with the tunnel vision.
Mom: “GO TO A NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE. GO RING A NEIGHBOR’S BELL.”
Me: “What? Our neighbors hate us. They’ll turn me away.”
Which may or may not be true. We lived in a 3-floor walk-up with (mostly) a bunch of Dominican people who really didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams. And the rest of our “neighbors” were elderly people who also didn’t care for our late-night rock n’ roll jams. I had a visionary flash of myself, weakly staggering into the hallway and rapping on their doors, and nobody answering as I eventually crumple into a lifeless heap on the cold, wet tile floor in a pool of my own sticky blood.
Mom: “GO TO THE NEIGHBORS. SOMEONE WILL HELP YOU. GO NOW.”
Me: “I might faint…”
Mom: “DON’T FAINT.”
Me: “I don’t want to. But I don’t know if I’m fainting because of all the blood or because I’m just fainting…”
Mom: “RUN YOUR HAND IN THE COLD WATER AND THEN GO TO THE NEIGHBORS.”
I actually try the cold water thing, but that makes the blood start really pumping out in buckets. So that can’t be good. But I really am feeling like I’m just on the brink of passing out now, so…
Me: “Okay, I’m gonna go, Ma. I better call an ambulance.” Wow – took me awhile to figure THAT one out… And I hang up.
I look down at Ellie, who’s been pacing around my feet, whining up at me mournfully. I shakily pat her with my non-bleeding hand and tell her: “Don’t worry, little bubby…I'm okay...” Oy. So far this one really lucked out in the Mommy Department…
I duct-tape a dishtowel around my bleeding hand and dial 911…
TO BE CONTINUED….
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