Flesh Wound

Knight 1: Your whole arm's off!
Knight 2: Merely a flesh wound.

--Monty Python

Puncture wounds are entirely devoid of drama, apparently. When Jonah lacerated his chin, he got several shots for pain, and six stitches, which he slept through. That was a satisfactory amount of medical attention, to my mind. Address the pain; sew up the hole; send him home.

So today, I go to all the trouble of stabbing myself in the arm with a ten-inch piece of pointed glass, and, naturally, I expect a little hoopla when I arrive in the emergency room. I had all sorts of exciting symptoms like tingling, burning, numbness, inability to move my fingers. . . As far as my puny lay mind could discern, this was something of a big deal. Hello? There's a hole in my arm over an inch deep! Blood! Gore! Fix it!

You know what that doctor said to me? Soak it in epsom salts twice a day. Clean it with peroxide. Change the Band-Aid.

Dude. My grandma could have told me that. Sew up the hole!

So yeah. For all my trouble I got a lousy Band-Aid on my arm. And it hurts to type. And I feel like a big hypochondriac baby for making Jenn come over here and watch my kids while Jason rushed home from work. (Oh, and incidentally, she cleaned my house and cooked for my family while I was off getting soaked and bandaged. Yes, she is my friend.)