The Story: Our Father's Day in the Emergency Room

Not our pie, but a fine looking one all the same.
Photo credit: Paul-W

Warning: I talk about an injury here. If that sort of thing makes you squeamish, and you don't like feeling squeamish, feel free to skip.

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The daddy is not one for special occasions. He's more of a do kind things that show people how much you care about them whenever the mood strikes sort of guy. He humors me by celebrating with enthusiasm all of the special days I deem important, but I know it doesn't mean much to him. 

I ordered him a little something special for Father's Day, but wasn't too upset when it didn't come in on time. I pressed him for a request for a special Father's Day breakfast, but he kept telling me he wanted nothing. Finally, he decided that he would really like to have a strawberry pie and I was happy to oblige. 

So, there I was Sunday morning (ahem, Sunday noon), still in my pajamas, bra-less, baking pie. I had a pan lined with bottom crust, pie filling cooling in preparation for being added to the pan, the oven preheated, and the top crust ready to roll out. Everything was coming together when I decided I ought to have some cashew whipped cream for my own serving of pie. In hindsight, I suppose the lesson here is not to be selfish on Father's Day. The daddy would never eat cashew whipped cream. This little creation was all about me.

I had soaked some nuts overnight and I added those and the rest of my ingredients to a mixing bowl, whipped out my trusty immersion blender, and set to pureeing. Things tend to clump up around the blender's blade, and I have a habit of turning it off and clearing the blade with my finger. I went to do just that, but was still holding the blender itself in my other hand and I accidentally pressed the button, activating the spinning blade with my finger in its path. 

I let go and pulled my finger out, shoving it immediately into my mouth. I was in too much shock to feel any pain, but it dawned on me that, 'that was probably pretty bad,' so I grabbed a nearby kitchen towel and wrapped it tight around my finger to control any bleeding, then opened the door to call to the husband, who was playing out front with our daughter. I was surprised at how calm I felt. "Honey?" I shouted from the front door. "I hurt myself." He rushed in and headed for the first aid kit, wrapped the wound in gauze, and then rushed me to the car for the hospital. I told him I needed to get dressed first, but he was not convinced. I managed to get him to bring me a bra and a tshirt, but I stayed in my pajama bottoms. We grabbed some frozen milk in case they should give me something that wasn't safe for nursing and we took off on the thirty minute drive to the naval hospital.

I was comforted by the fact that I was able to remain calm and respond appropriately: continuing to apply pressure and keeping the hand above my heart. I honestly would have expected myself to completely lose my cool in such a situation. I'm glad to know I can handle it.

We arrived at the ER and it was actually rather quiet, so I was taken to triage right away. They determined that I had not hit any nerves or the artery, and sent me off to radiology for an x-ray where they determined the bone was intact as well. With as deeply as I had cut myself, and in more than one place, it's really a wonder I didn't do more damage.

I was given shots of Lidocaine, which really proved to be the worst part of the whole ordeal. One injection of the fluid was made into each of three nerves running up the side of my finger, and I felt every prick, followed by a stinging/burning sensation as the solution was injected. The numbness that followed was fantastic, but the shots were awful. 

Next, I was given a tetanus shot just to be safe, which was quite frustrating. Being such a believer in informed choice, there was so much I wanted to research before consenting to each of these things, but there really was not time. It was quite a contrast to my last hospital experience: Annabelle's birth, when I knew exactly what I wanted to consent to, what I wanted to refuse, and why. In this case, I just had to trust the people who were caring for me.

Sewn up, bandaged, and splinted.

When I was thoroughly numbed and cleaned up, I looked at the wound for the first time. It was, as so many had said already, pretty impressive. The corpsman who was doing the work mentioned to the trainee who was observing that he couldn't do much for the bleeding because they were out of finger tourniquets. Oops! The doctor was called in to have a closer look before the suture and it was determined that I had lacerated a tendon. He put things on hold while he went to call the orthopedic surgeon, then returned and explained that the specialist wanted to see me, but his clinic was very busy. He instructed the corpsman to "approximate the skin, but just make it loose." I was to wait for the orthopedics clinic to call me on Monday to schedule an appointment during the week, and my stitches needed to be loose so that the orthopedic surgeon could reopen the wound, have a look, determine what needed to be done, and then have me stitched up properly. 

This sounded like a nightmare to me, and still does. I'm dreading my appointment in orthopedics, which is on Thursday morning, and angry that they couldn't take care of everything at once. I'm not really sure if this is how things would have gone most anywhere, or if this is perhaps what we would lovingly refer to as an "only on Guam" experience. I received six stitches, but was told I would have been given at least a dozen if they weren't coming right back out a couple of days later.

Sunday evening, the daddy rolled out his own top crust and assembled the pie I had made ready, and it turned out pretty darn good. If I write it up in a recipe book, perhaps it will one day make up for all this?

So that's the harrowing tale of our Father's Day. Lesson learned: If you must clear the blade on your immersion blender by hand, unplug the darn thing first.