***WARNING!!! The following post contains images of blood, gore, and damaged appendages and may not be suitable for younger audiences or those with weak stomachs. View at your own risk. If you choose not to read the following post, please click here to view something happy***
So Tuesday night Micah went to class and I settled in the bathtub for a nice, long soak. I had my movie going, a pillow behind my head, and suds between my toes. I was living the life! About an hour into my bath, I moved my arm because it was getting stiff and felt my elbow knock over a shampoo bottle that was lurking behind the shower curtain.
Sneaky little thing.
I think it had this whole thing planned from the beginning.
After all, that shampoo has had it out for me since day one.
Just look what it did to my split ends!
Anyway, I felt the bottle about to roll off the side of the tub so I quickly reached down to catch it. As soon as I did, I felt my hand connect with something and my finger began to throb. My first thought was that I had smashed it under the shampoo bottle.
I told you that bottle was bad.
But then I pulled my finger back towards me and saw....
Don't say I didn't warn you...
The happy place is still waiting for you...
Okay.. back to the blood.
Yeah.. there's no way a shampoo bottle did THAT.
I stuck my hand in the bath water and within seconds what was once smooth and clear turned red, red, red. I felt like the Egyptians when the Nile turned to blood.
It's very disconcerting to sit a tub full of bloody water. Like flashbacks to some 80's horror film or one of those Japanese movies that make you sleep with the light on for the next three months.
Not that I would know from experience. I have purposely stayed far away from those types of movies because of that very reason. I like my sleep, and my sanity, thank you very much.
Now.. back to the blood.
For the next hour and a half, I held pressure on my finger but the blood would not stop. It especially did not help that I bleed extra fast too. Because of that delightful fact, I began to get light-headed and dizzy. Not because I was losing great amounts of blood, Micah figured I lost about 1/2 a cup or so total), but the fact that it was coming out too quickly. I staggered to the kitchen, got myself some OJ, because they always give me juice after giving blood, grabbed some paper towels, and settled down on the bathroom floor to wait it out.
When Micah (finally) got home, he walked in the bathroom and found this lovely sight greeting him:
There was blood in the toilet, blood in the bathtub, blood in the sink, blood on towels and tissue, blood dripped across the floor, and of course, blood on me.
Needless to say, there was blood.
Okay... now I'm starting to get light-headed from using that word too much. I think from now on I'll just call it the "red stuff", how about that? For both our sake's.
Micah, the ever-ready EMT, cleaned out the wound and bound it up, but not before he first tortured me with alcohol.
I think he did it on purpose.
In fact, I know he did.
Why? Because he admitted as much to me.
Never mind that it was for my own good in order to sterilize the wound because apparently water isn't as clean as we think it is.
But still.. it hurt.
We bandaged it up good for the night:
Which was a good thing because apparently I banged it a few times during the night and the inside of the bandage was all bloody. Err... covered with the red stuff. Yeah...
Yesterday we attempted to remove the old bandage and replace it with a fresh one, but by then the scab had begun to form around the band-aid, fusing it together with my skin. Well, actually with my red stuffy-wound. And you couldn't remove it because it HURT LIKE CRAZY!!!! Micah didn't want to reopen the wound, so we left it and put a new bandage on top until we had more time to do something.
Last night while Micah was gone to a meeting, I finished my previously-cut-short bath, allowing the finger to soak, stuck-on band-aid and all, for about two hours. Every so often, I would gently work with the band-aid until ultimately there was just a few strands of skin/muscle holding them together. A turn this way, a twist that way. And with a short yelp of pain and just a few drops of red stuff, my finger was exposed in all its gory glory.
Wait.. I don't think you got a close enough look:
Now that we can actually see the damage, it appears that I went through all 7 layers of skin, past most of the fat layer, and into the muscle a bit. And all those tiny nerves.. yeah.. they're on fire whenever I so much as come within 5 inches of touching something. And I took off a nice chunk of my nail, too, though thankfully the root was not damaged so that will grow back normally. The finger, not so much.
Well, at least now I have a cool, gruesome story to tell. A war wound, if you will.
Oh, and what was the instrument of all this devastation and pain? The object that brought about such a traumatic event that will haunt me for the rest of my life?
Safety razor my butt!
I should sue.