The Case of the Bloody Walnut Bread

WARNING: This blog entry is not for the squeamish, faint of heart or those eating breakfast. Put away the food now or read this later.

I had a bit of a mishap Friday morning.

It all started out normally. My alarm went off at 8am, I hit snooze for 15 minutes, and then opened my window blinds, unsurprised to see a blue & cloudless sky and the zipper bird whistling away on a nearby tree branch. I staggered into the kitchen and dumped two heaping tablespoonfuls of "strudel cake" flavored coffee into my Mr. Coffee machine, and pulled out the tail end of a raisin-walnut bakery loaf of bread.

The culprit.

I'd had the loaf for a couple days, leading the crust to be a bit “crustier” than usual. Obviously not thinking entirely clearly, I pulled a steak knife out of my utensil holder on my kitchen counter and began to saw away at the bread.

The perpetrator.

I was about a third of the way through the slice when I hit a tough patch. Holding the bread firmly with my left hand on the back, I put a little more muscle into the cut and found that I jammed the knife straight through the bread… and directly into my left palm about an inch under my pinky finger.

First of all, it hurt like a mother. It wasn’t a delayed pain. It was a “oh shit, I just stabbed myself” sort of pain. I immediately looked at my hand, which was starting to bleed rather heavily.

The evidence, document 1a...

I quickly turned around and put my hand under cold water in my sink, surveying the wound and realizing it was worse than I initially thought. Remembering my fine military training, I grabbed a paper towel and began to apply pressure to my wound to stop it from bleeding.

The evidence, document 1b.

It was at that moment that I began to feel nauseous. I’ve never fainted before, even after donating blood, suffering through multiple shots (including rabies & anthrax), and attending a brain surgery (with my brother, who sells medical equipment). But for whatever reason, I began to sweat profusely (soaking through my pajama top), actually got sick, and had to lie on my bathroom floor for about five minutes before regaining my composure. Very bizarre indeed.

However, once I felt better, I applied a band-aid to my wound and decided I couldn’t waste my NYC-imported coffee. So I poured myself a cup of joe, finished slicing the bread (yes, with the same knife), and sat down for a moment with my toast & coffee to think about what to do next. I called my mom and Miguel, who both said I should go immediately to the doctor.

Instead I decided to toss my books into my backpack and go to Arabic class. After all, I hadn’t skipped karaoke night with Anna the evening before in order to complete my Arabic homework and then not be able to turn it in. Plus, although the wound was in an awkward spot for bike riding (I had to ride one-handed), it really didn’t hurt that much.

So I sat through an hour and a half of Arabic and didn’t think about it. After class, however, I realized that blood was seeping through the too-small band-aid and was beginning to smear around on my palm.

If you haven’t figured out yet that I think going to the doctor is a waste of time, I guess I should tell you that I think doctors’ office visits are generally pointless. I believe in going to the doctor only for the most extreme emergencies (ie: missing limbs, obviously broken bones, or gran mal seizures might qualify), and I strongly believe that only sissies visit the doctor for any sort of cold, flu, random virus, bacterial ailment, or superficial wound. This is why we have immune systems, after all. I still wasn’t sure my wound met the qualifications for “emergency,” but after telling my story to a handful of friends & professors in my department, the unanimous vote (not including my abstention, of course) was that I should immediately proceed to an urgent care clinic.

My Arabic professor (tiny photo blown up) and my Islamic Studies professor...

...two of those who advised me to seek help.

Luckily I only had to wait about 15 minutes to see a real doctor, who took one look at my gash and immediately declared I needed sutures. Sutures? Like, stitches? Yes, I am rather clumsy, but I have thus far in my life avoided stitches for an accidental injury (ie: not wisdom teeth).

I must admit, I felt like I had finally joined the ranks of the hardcore, like my brother who has had about 400 stitches in his lifetime for various grotesque childhood & sports injuries. At the same time, I was not really looking forward to the actual novacaine and suturing process. One of the more humorous things I noted , though, is that when they put my name and injury into their computer system, I saw the nurse type: “self-inflicted stab wound… left palm.”

I will only say the stitching part reallllly hurt, and the needle in the wound was not particularly pleasant. Apparently my hand wasn’t very happy either, as when it was all over, and the two stitches were in place, my hand was covered in so much blood that the nurse had to use three wet clothes to clean it completely.

My hand with stitches... don't look if you're grossed out easily...

... not very wide but apparently rather deep.

Then the nurse gave me this chi-chi bandage...

I love the hot pink.

I had to keep it dry for 48 hours, which led me to shower with a plastic bag on my hand, wash my hair one-handed, and attempt to shave my right armpit with my right hand (fairly impossible for an uncoordinated, inflexible gimp like me). And then my hand sweat so much inside the plastic bag that I might as well have gotten the damn thing wet.

Revisiting the scene of the crime...

It gave my hand some closure. (no pun intended)

Anyway, this is the excitement of my weekend. Oh, and to answer last week’s “stay or go” question about the night out at the Cactus Moon, I actually used my better judgment for once and decided to have a productive night in.

My hand is getting a bit sore from typing now so I will say guten nacht…

ps - I would like a round-ended, yet sharply serrated, bread knife for Christmas. Thanks!