“Get a cloth. Quick!”
“What happened?”
“Just do it!”
“Oh my God. You’re bleeding!”
“It’s bad. Real bad! You have to take me to the hospital. Now!”
I said it again, “What the hell happened?”
In between the moans and grunts, he managed to tell me about the knife, the hotdog sticks, the dark, just one more notch and it would be perfect. “More towels!”
I ran to get the towels as I yelled out the back door, “KIds! Come here. Hurry! Dad and I have to go to the hospital. Be careful of the fire. Watch it carefully. Don’t leave it. We’ll call.”
Tears filled their eyes, fear plastered their faces. I kissed them, grabbed the keys off the counter and ran to start the car.
“Oh the pain. I can’t stand it!” He was keeled over clutching his hand, blood gushing everywhere.
“What can I do? We’re almost there. Here’s more towels. Hang on honey.” I reached from between the seats to tear off a huge mass of paper towel from the roll.
“Oh shit. It’s bad! I can’t feel my fingers!”
“It’ll be OK. You’ll be OK. We’re almost there.” I tried to be reassuring and positive for my husband’s sake. I was trembling and feeling sick to my stomach. The sight of his blood, the pain filled sounds made me nauseous.
Triage, admissions, nurses, finally the doctor. It was quick. Little waiting, thank God.
I was right. He’d be OK. Seven stitches, two fingers and all that pain.
A memorable night.
