Weekends have been a little troublesome for us. We’re not the only ones, and I’m sure for most people it’s not limited to weekends (in our small church, we have a young mom completely laid up after back surgery to remove big bone fragments that came loose and attacked her spinal nerves after a bout of strenuous exercise [that’s what you get for exercising, right?], a grandma [the one taking care of the mom] with a broken toe, a businesswoman with a broken foot.. Lest this seem minor, this probably constitutes 20% of our regular attendees).
A few weeks ago Hubby was changing out a doorknob, and instead of getting the proper hammer and chisel, he tried to carve out room for the new latchplate with his leatherman.
He sliced his palm about 3 1/2″ long, up to a quarter inch deep (I thank God his skin is tough and leathery, else it might’ve been so much worse), right along one of the creases of his hand.
This photo was taken with my crummy camera, text-messaged to my sisterinlaw, who emailed it back to me. Forgive the travel-weary state:
It became our first-ever actual ER visit in the nearly-11 years we’ve been married. It was a busy Saturday night there, and I was surprised at the number of little babies in carriers that were waiting for treatment.
He cut himself sometime around 7, and I didn’t know it until I came out from sewing to see what his earlier groaning and muttering was about. He had his grubby hand wrapped around a paper towel. He showed it to me, and I gasped, then followed up with, “really? Really? What are you thinkin’ man? Maybe we should WASH that a little bit?” Said with a partial smile. We went downstairs and did a little first-aid and considered our options. We were on the fence regarding the necessity of further treatment, so called various people for second opinions. My dad encouraged us not to risk a workin’-man’s hands, and to get it stitched up. With a sigh I took the pot of reheating soup from the stove, and made a call to my inlaws who agreed to watch the kids. The kids were told to each grab their pajamas and to get into the van. My motherinlaw offered to inspect the wound to give her opinion, but I was pretty sure if *I* was on the fence regarding an ER visit, she’d be completely convinced it was necessary. 🙂 I was right, and after dropping the girls, we went to the hospital. We got out around 11pm, and used a drive-thru Walgreen’s to pick up Vicodin at midnight. Weird.
Ten days later we had my motherinlaw (she’s a nurse) begin to remove the sutures per the instructions of the PA that did the job. The wound was not healing right, in fact the more stitches she removed, the more it kindof gaped open, so she stopped halfway, and I spent the last little bit of savings on yet more bandages and wrap tape. 🙂 The good news is that it HAS healed, if not the way it was first intended. His tough, calloused skin went together under the PA’s needle, but shifted after that, and while the gash didn’t close itself, it did heal inside the walls of itself.
What do you suppose a palm-reader would make of him now? “Things will be cut short.” “You have a split personality.” “I’m unable to read this language.” 🙂
Truly, we thank God for healing, and for available medical care to tend to it.