Happy New Year, everyone!
I fully intended to write a more serious Christmas post and had one started. I worked at it a couple of times but it never came together and on one of the most special of days, I didn’t want to turn in shoddy work. Jesus deserves better than that on His birthday so it will wait until next year when I can hopefully get it right.
I trust that if you are reading this, you survived the holidays and the ball drop. I almost didn’t, you’ll be happy to know, because there is a story and I’ve written it up for your entertainment. However, this post is not for the faint of heart. If talking about blood makes you squeamish you should probably skip this one. Seriously. I won’t be offended.
On my About page, I told you all about why I started writing in the first place. I received a Christmas letter a few years ago that could most likely be classified as the worst Christmas letter ever. One of the topics was “Illness” and in it, the author discussed in minute detail all the sicknesses her family had over the past year. I got all arrogant and thought that I could do a far better job and write something that people would want to read so three years ago, I began that tradition.
This year I wrote a beautiful letter detailing all that I had learned over the past year about home maintenance and the injuries I received in that learning process. In all fairness, I only lost one toenail and had only one pretty serious bout of nausea when I learned how to snake a drain for the first time. Still, I think Daddy-O and JiJi realized that I was going to continue to make small home improvements on my own and bought me two really nice gifts to help me along: an electric screwdriver and my very own pocketknife (a pink one) which I had mentioned wanting more than once.
With great excitement, I realized that my new pocketknife would be helpful in opening the mountain of gifts I had. See, JiJi likes to use the curling ribbon on all her gifts and getting that off the package is no easy feat. (She also likes to shop. See: mountain of gifts.) I whipped out my knife, cut off the ribbon and promptly sliced my finger open. The blade was so sharp and the cut was so clean that I barely felt the cut so it took a few milliseconds for my brain to catch up.
“Oh,” I said and then realized that I really had quite a lot of blood to contend with. Like really a lot. I had cut the index finger on my left hand and so when I cradled my left hand in my right, I started collecting a nice little pool of blood in my palm.
JiJi immediately sent Pooh and Tigger into the bathroom to get me something to compress the wound and off they went after staring for a moment in total fascination at the blood that was nearly fountaining from my finger. From the bathroom we heard all manner of clanging and banging and opening of cabinets yet no child appeared with a wad of gauze or a box of tissues.
Overall, I’m very good in a crisis. I’m calm and level-headed when catastrophies happen. I rarely panic until it is all over. But this time we all became slightly panicky as the pool of blood became harder to contain, you see. I was starting to worry for the state of the couch and my clothes when someone, I can’t remember who, asked in exasperation, “Girls, what are you doing?”
Tigger innocently replied, “Getting the first aid kit.” Aren’t they the cutest? They have learned all the safety rules and will be the first to yell “STOP, DROP AND ROLL!” when the smoke alarm goes off.
Anyway, JiJi roared, “Just bring something,” and Pooh, after another enormous clang, ran into the living room with two squares of toilet paper. Two tiny little squares for the fount of blood that was now gushing forth from my finger and pouring down my arm. Tigger finally dug out the first aid kit and brought me a tiny band aid. I couldn’t help but think it was like someone set me in front of a full bathtub and gave me a single cotton ball and instructions to soak it all up.
We finally got me all squared away. JiJi and Martie had a look at my injury, told me I wouldn’t die and slapped some band aids on it so tightly that I could feel my every heart beat. Daddy-O said jovially from his perch in the living room, “Well. She’s bifurcated her finger.” It was such a statement; it spoke volumes. I don’t think anyone expected any less of me. I do know that for the next few months, I will explain away every dumb thing I do with my new electric screwdriver by saying, “I lost a lot of blood that one time. I can’t help it.”
Love, Jimmie 