I sliced myself last week, with my biggest kitchen knife. I was holding it in my left hand, and using the scrubber with my right. The scrubber slipped, but my hand kept on doing the mechanical scrubbing motion. My right index finger was neatly whacked like an ax going into a thin piece of kindling wood.
I pulled the knife out of my finger in slight shock. No blood. I examined my wound. No blood. No blood. My finger was fully numb. Hmmm. It looked to be about 1.5 cm long, and pretty deep. I cautiously parted my splice to check the depth. LOTS of blood.
I inhaled sharply. This was not good. I picked up my phone and dialed my husband.
“Hi. It’s me. I cut myself. I don’t know what to do.”
I described what was going on to him. “It’s deep but not deep enough for stitches. I don’t need to call 911. But I don’t know what to do.”
He said smartly, “Put a band-aid on it.”
I replied, “Thanks. I know that. How do I clean it?”
The knife had been used to cut up raw fish. I had visions of slippery fish traces in my finger innards.
As my finger continued to drip, he said, “Oh, pour hydrogen peroxide on it. You’ve really got to clean it good.”
As I got out the hydrogen peroxide, I recalled the last time I cut myself.
I was in college, on a racecar team. I was cutting pieces of carbon fiber for a gas tank. I was sliding my razor as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I sliced a nice portion of my finger as well.
One of the guys took it upon himself to help me. He really went to town cleaning that cut out. I was practically on my knees in pain, as he shoved alcohol wipes into my finger. It felt like little glass teeth sweeping across my bone.
As I remembered this wonderful experience, I hesitated with the peroxide. Then I gritted my teeth and slopped it on a few times. No pain. Lots of bubbles. Lots of blood.
I thought that perhaps there was no pain because I didn’t part the wound when I poured the peroxide. Reluctantly, I repeated the process, this time opening the cut up. Lots more bubbles. The pain was minimal. I was extremely relieved.
As I bandaged myself and went about my day, my finger really started to hurt. But the pain was nothing like what I experienced when I cut myself in college.
I have been having trouble cooking, cleaning and sewing since temporarily losing the use of my finger. But even with raw eggs on the floor, the kitchen a wreck and my tree skirt only partially finished, I am happy that the finger has not actually been in much pain. Lots of tingling when I hold the kid with that arm, and small spurts of pain here and there.
That’s about it. Nothing keeping me up at night or bringing me to my knees. So, in my books, it was a good gash.