Some Of You Don't Know This, But I Am A Butcher
Yesterday, I was cutting pork chops on the meat saw for two hours straight. When I got down to the very last one, I sliced off two of my knuckles. There wasn't any pain; all I felt was the cold blade go through the flesh of my hand. Not really inspecting just how bad the crime scene was, I thought it was no big deal at first; that maybe I could slap on some band-aids and be done with it. No dice. I bleed right through them in mere seconds. A few feet gauze, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and an accident report later, I thought I was in the clear. At the time I didn't really know the full extent of worker's compensation, so I was under the impression that I had to pay an extravagant hospital fee if I chose to get examined. This was going to fly considering that I've been living on the brink of poverty for the past few years. So getting my fingers stop bleeding was a priority. If this happened, I would avoid the unavoidable and take care of my wounded hand myself. Following the advice of my superiors, I put a glove over my hand and went back to work.
It wasn't until two hours later when I caved in.
When I took my hand out of its glove, my entire hand was soaked in blood that was literally dripping off of my fingertips. Some people in my department gathered around as I proudly displayed what had happened. I took a gander at the damage myself this time. My middle finger received a deep abrasion, but seemed to have stopped bleeding. It was my right ring finger that was the problem. A big hunk had been removed and was slowly gushing blood when I removed the gauze. Looking closer, I could see the white and blue of the joint, which I fortunately barely missed cutting. Also missed, was a dark purple vein, which was fully exposed. It wasn't until that moment when I realize just how lucky I was. Suddenly, all I could visualize was that saw taking off a few of my fingers.
The seafood supervisor took me into a back room and called one of the store managers to tell him what exactly was going down. At this point I felt like an idiot. I was like a wounded hunting dog that lost its usefulness as its owners discussed a grim, inevitable future. So I pick up this plastic kiddies’ baseball bat and start swinging it around to relieve some of my anxiety. While doing this, I managed to bop myself square in the nose. I shot a quick glance at the seafood supervisor, who was staring at me, and we both cracked up at the sheer stupidity of the moment. My day was simply getting better and better.
The store manager ended up hauling me to a minor emergency center. After an hour wait and having my hand actually poked and prodded, we were told to see hand specialist at a nearby hospital. Leaving, I offered my female doctor my left hand which she reluctantly shook. Not until later did I discover that my left hand was also covered in blood. Oops.
People who say that the DMV has the worst wait in the world apparently have never been to a hospital. Everyone around you is sick and crying. A few people came in handcuffs being escorted by police. At four o'clock, I enter triage only to have my fingers man-handled for a few minutes. Then I was told to wait. Three hours later, I finally made it into the emergency room and an hour and a half after that I saw my doctor for a brief rundown. While I was waiting to get into this one room to get repaired, this elderly woman in the adjacent room died after any few fleeting moments of very deep gasps for breath and convulsions. Her surrounding friends could do nothing be look on, just like me, a very young boy feeling even less significant the more he saw. I felt ashamed doing so, yet I could take my eyes off her.
My doctor finally pulled me away from the scene. My ring finger got worked on first since it was still bleeding. I had sliced into a blood vessel, so it wasn’t anything to worry too much over. There was too much meat missing from the finger to stitch it up, so he had to constantly poke at the cut with q-tips covered in silver nitrate to stop the blood. Poke, wipe. Poke, wipe. This lasted for fifteen minutes without painkillers.
The middle finger received sixteen stitches, the last five of which I felt. Just glancing at it gave me the urge to pass out. So the entire time, I had my head down, a pretty pet with his paw being attended to. This lasted for what I determined was eternity.
With a few bandages and a tetanus shot, I made my way to the waiting room to find my manager still waiting for me. This was around 9:30. I felt all sorts of bad and even offered to treat him to dinner, which he declined. I almost had a complete breakdown in his SUV, but managed to hold strong. He drove me to my empty apartment and I’ve been trying to evoke sympathy through the internet ever since. Luckily, workers’ compensation is supposed to pay this in full.
And believe me, this was a real pain to type.
It wasn't until two hours later when I caved in.
When I took my hand out of its glove, my entire hand was soaked in blood that was literally dripping off of my fingertips. Some people in my department gathered around as I proudly displayed what had happened. I took a gander at the damage myself this time. My middle finger received a deep abrasion, but seemed to have stopped bleeding. It was my right ring finger that was the problem. A big hunk had been removed and was slowly gushing blood when I removed the gauze. Looking closer, I could see the white and blue of the joint, which I fortunately barely missed cutting. Also missed, was a dark purple vein, which was fully exposed. It wasn't until that moment when I realize just how lucky I was. Suddenly, all I could visualize was that saw taking off a few of my fingers.
The seafood supervisor took me into a back room and called one of the store managers to tell him what exactly was going down. At this point I felt like an idiot. I was like a wounded hunting dog that lost its usefulness as its owners discussed a grim, inevitable future. So I pick up this plastic kiddies’ baseball bat and start swinging it around to relieve some of my anxiety. While doing this, I managed to bop myself square in the nose. I shot a quick glance at the seafood supervisor, who was staring at me, and we both cracked up at the sheer stupidity of the moment. My day was simply getting better and better.
The store manager ended up hauling me to a minor emergency center. After an hour wait and having my hand actually poked and prodded, we were told to see hand specialist at a nearby hospital. Leaving, I offered my female doctor my left hand which she reluctantly shook. Not until later did I discover that my left hand was also covered in blood. Oops.
People who say that the DMV has the worst wait in the world apparently have never been to a hospital. Everyone around you is sick and crying. A few people came in handcuffs being escorted by police. At four o'clock, I enter triage only to have my fingers man-handled for a few minutes. Then I was told to wait. Three hours later, I finally made it into the emergency room and an hour and a half after that I saw my doctor for a brief rundown. While I was waiting to get into this one room to get repaired, this elderly woman in the adjacent room died after any few fleeting moments of very deep gasps for breath and convulsions. Her surrounding friends could do nothing be look on, just like me, a very young boy feeling even less significant the more he saw. I felt ashamed doing so, yet I could take my eyes off her.
My doctor finally pulled me away from the scene. My ring finger got worked on first since it was still bleeding. I had sliced into a blood vessel, so it wasn’t anything to worry too much over. There was too much meat missing from the finger to stitch it up, so he had to constantly poke at the cut with q-tips covered in silver nitrate to stop the blood. Poke, wipe. Poke, wipe. This lasted for fifteen minutes without painkillers.
The middle finger received sixteen stitches, the last five of which I felt. Just glancing at it gave me the urge to pass out. So the entire time, I had my head down, a pretty pet with his paw being attended to. This lasted for what I determined was eternity.
With a few bandages and a tetanus shot, I made my way to the waiting room to find my manager still waiting for me. This was around 9:30. I felt all sorts of bad and even offered to treat him to dinner, which he declined. I almost had a complete breakdown in his SUV, but managed to hold strong. He drove me to my empty apartment and I’ve been trying to evoke sympathy through the internet ever since. Luckily, workers’ compensation is supposed to pay this in full.
And believe me, this was a real pain to type.