Remember last week, when I said I just needed the strength to make it through the week?
You know the expression "be careful what you wish for?"
I made it through the week, and then came Saturday. The migraine lifted, but then came Saturday. I fought for my funding at work (and won, yay!), but then came Saturday.
The girl-child headed off with her Girl Scout troop for an overnight trip, so my husband took her to the meet-up point Saturday morning. I figured now was as good a time as any to remove the slab of Easter Caramels from the pan and begin the tedious chore of individually wrapping them in little pieces of waxed paper.
The caramels had other plans.
I really like good kitchen tools. I'm a sucker for a heavy pot, a sil-pat nonstick pan liner, silicone rubber spatulas, and sharp knives. I'm partial to Global knives. I own four, and I use them all the time. My husband is a super great guy, and he bought a fancy set of stones and polishers that he uses to keep my knives sharp. Dull knives are awful, and I don't let them hang out in my kitchen.
So there I was, trying to pry the slab of caramel out of the dish, when something somewhere slipped. The slippage was stopped by my bone. For half a second, I had a 12" Global chef knife sticking into my bone. Wow!
Not thinking, I pulled the knife out immediately. Yes, I'm first aid certified under two different globally-recognized training systems. No, I didn't remember that one should NEVER pull out a knife in a stab wound.
I don't handle blood very well. I have a scar on my forehead from chemistry class in high school. The teacher was discussing bloody accidents from the past and down I fell, hitting my head on a ceramic eye-wash stand, then proceeding on to seizures on the laboratory floor. I really wasn't the coolest kid in the class. I was even less cool after this episode.
Anyway, blood, spurting. I went down, hit the floor, stood up, made it further, hit the floor, got to the phone to call my husband. His cell isn't on. I make it up the stairs, blood still flowing, hit the floor. Try to get to bed, hit the floor again. Decide this is the most comfortable pile of dirty laundry in the whole wide world and I'd just rest here for awhile.
My poor husband comes home, sees the blood trail, follows it through the house, and finally finds me crumpled in a ball on the bedroom floor. Poor guy! I tell him I cut myself, and he says yes, he can tell. But where the heck am I bleeding? Where is this mad gush of blood coming from? There's blood all over the house, he says. In fact, there's blood on the walls, blood on the trim around the bedroom door, blood just about everywhere!
I show him the wound. It's less than an inch long on my thumb.
It took it a few hours to stop completely. But it finally did. And the weird thing is, the cut doesn't hurt at all. I still can't use my thumb without it bleeding, but there's no pain, so I don't really care.
And, since I couldn't use my thumb, my super-cool husband had to wrap all the caramels.
I just might have to remember this plan for next year!
I also have to remember to be careful what I wish for...