I noticed that my office scissors were all gummed up with tape. I use them to cut packing tape now and then. They're very sharp and work well, but once they're covered in tape residue, they bind up when cutting paper. I got out the Goo Gone and the Break Free CLP and started busily cleaning and oiling the scissors.
What I discovered was that my scissors, while gummed up with adhesive, were still really freaking sharp.
I managed to cut myself on the right pinky finger, and badly. The blood welled up with remarkable speed. Dropping the bloody scissors on my chair, I wrapped my finger in my bandanna (which I always carry in my pocket -- most useful survival item you can carry!) and went into the restroom thinking to wash off the cut.
Big mistake. The second the water hit my finger I felt like somebody's punched a staple through my hand. Not only did the water really, really hurt (which meant the cut was much deeper than I'd thought), but it sprayed blood everywhere. I mean, we're not talking about a few drops here; we'ere talking Oh-no-call-the-cops-somebody's-just-dismembered-a-hooker-in-the-bathroom liquid volume. It looked like Anthony Perkins had stopped in just long enough to use up all the toilet paper and then wreck the joint.
With a blob of paper towels clamped over my finger, I went looking for the two EMTs we have in the building. One of them, I was told, was on vacation. I went looking for the other one, who is Canadian. Now, I don't know about you, but I'll settle for a Canadian in times of grievous personal injury. He, too, however, was nowhere to be found.
I started asking around my department if anybody knew where the local Urgent Care was located. I mean, I was bleeding badly and it wasn't stopping, no, but I wasn't in any life-threatening danger. I didn't want to go to an emergency room and compete with people who were, you know, stabbed or shot or having problems breathing. What sort of a jerk move would that be? "Yeah, I know the guy with the gunshot wound has a hole through his face, but I was here first." No, people with knives jutting from their skulls always take precedence over large caucasian technical writers with sliced pinky fingers.
Maybe I expect too much, but when you've got a death grip on your finger and you ask around for the location of the nearest Urgent Care, you kind of expect somebody to say, "Hey, there, little fella, looks like you need somebody to drive you to medical attention." Not so here. For my plaintive cries I got a series of blank stares, followed by a couple of coworkers who helpfully offered to Mapquest the directions for me and print them out.
"Why... thank you," I said through gritted teeth, doing my best not to bleed on the printed directions. "I'll get right on that."
"Yeah," one of my coworkers said, looking dourly at my finger. "You should probably get stitches. Did you need somebody to print those directions for you?"
I waved my now-bloody directions at him and went in search of my friend Matt in Marketing. Matt looked at me with my hand clenched over my pinky and, to his credit, offered to drive me.
"Hundreds of knives," I muttered as he drove. "Hundreds of knives in my collection, and I cut myself on a pair of scissors."
"There is a certain irony," Matt commented.
We got to the Urgent Care building, where I was told that, no, I wasn't at the Urgent Care at all, but next door to it. I followed the directions given to me and stopped in a small office nearby.
"Is this an Urgent Care facility?" I asked hopefully.
"Yes," the woman behind the counter said.
"I've cut my finger very badly," I said, "And I might need stitches."
"Oh," the woman said, looking suddenly sheepish. "Uh... we don't actually do stitches here."
"You don't?" I asked. Clearly, we were operating under a new working definition of "Urgent," if that was the case. "Well, is there somebody here who could at least look at it, and tell me if I need stitches?"
"I suppose the nurse could look at it," the woman half-shrugged. "Have a seat and we'll be right with you."
I sat down. Matt sat down next to me. We waited. And we waited. And we waited.
"You know," Matt said, "Since we're only domestic partners, I won't be able to go in there with you."
"Thank you," I said wearily. "Thank you for interjecting that into this."
Matt chuckled. A young lady entered, signed in, and was seen by whatever doctor or physician's assistant apparently wouldn't be giving her any stitches. Finally, a nurse opened the door and called my name.
"Hello," she said in a tired, beaten voice. "What are you here for?"
"I've cut my finger very badly," I repeated. "It wouldn't stop bleeding... although I note with some interest that in the time it took for you to finally see me, it has, in fact, stopped."
"Oh..." she said. "We don't do stitches here. We'd have to send you to another facility for that."
"Yes," I said patienty. "I am very aware of this no-stitches situation in which we find ourselves. However, I would very much like for a medical professional to tell me if I do, in fact, require stitches for this cut. If you could tell me that, this is information that could be of some use to me."
"Well, let's take a look," she said, sighing. She poked at my finger a little and then looked at me.
"Do I," I prodded, "need stitches?"
"If it was me," she said hesitantly, "I don't think I would have anything done."
Well, that's just great, I thought. And how do I know you don't have some strange fetish for rotted limbs or scars?
"Do I need stitches or not?" I asked directly.
"I don't think so," she finally said. "I wouldn't."
"Great," I said. "Should I go, then?"
"Well, we can at least clean that up for you." She looked around. I realized then that the room into which she had led me was basically a glorified storage closet, with piles of gauze and other things on counters around the room.
We started to leave the room, but she stopped. "Oh, no," she said in that same tired, listless voice. "We don't have any sinks."
"You don't have... sinks," I said, incredulous.
"Well, we do," she said, "but the rooms they're in are all occupied."
"Shall I go, then?"
"I can probably use something here," she said. She grabbed some gauze and a plastic bottle. I assumed it was alcohol.
"Will that sting?" I asked.
"No," she said. "it's just saline."
Well, of course, I thought. Why waste antiseptic?
The nurse played at cleaning my finger, poured some gel on my cut that might or might have had any anti-bacterial properties, and then wrapped a bandaid around it. Then she sighed, long and deeply. "Well," she drawled, "now that you're hear, I have to take your temperature and blood pressure."
"Can I refuse that?" I said testily. "That sounds ridiculous to me."
"Yes!" she said, smiling, excited for the first time. "Oh, yes, you can definitely refuse."
"Then I refuse," I said flatly.
"Let me just fill it out here on the form," she clucked, entering something on the paper she'd gotten from the receptionist. "Declined... declined... good, good..."
I was pleased that, as annoying as my afternoon had become, I could at least save this woman from the arduous doing-of-her-job that I might otherwise be requiring from her.
"We keep this," she said finally, waving the paper.
"Good," I said. I left.
I walked out without stopping at the desk. I found Matt outside, doing something with his iPhone. "Let's get the hell out of here," I announced.
"You're done?" he asked.
"Quick," I said. "Before they ask for a co-pay."
The worst part was that, when I got back to the office, I had to clean the scissors all over again.
