After bragging about tile removal and marvelous cake baking in my last blog post, I feel I have to post an update about my condition.
I returned to the kitchen for some more work last night, putting on a new pair of rubber gloves so my fingers wouldn't stick together from all the glue on the back of the tiles. Some had mountains of glue, others had just a few drops. Whoever did our kitchen "upgrades" can't have been very handy, I thought.
The tiles behind the stove were calling out to me, and after one was pulled off with a bit of a struggle, I went straight for the second one. A flat-head screwdriver held tightly in my left hand, my right was flailing about somewhere near the tile trying to get a good grip of a corner. Before I knew it, my left hand slipped on the tile and stabbed my right hand with the screwdriver.
Pain was shooting from the top of my right index finger, right below the nail. I could see something red through a large hole I had just cut in the white glove. Quickly, I ripped the glove off, ran over to the sink and started rinsing my hand in cold water. I clenched my gloved left hand around my bleeding finger so I wouldn't have to look at it. It was just too scary. What if I had cut a deep, stitch-worthy gash?
I took a quick peek, and it was bleeding a lot. Still holding my finger, I grabbed the phone on the counter and tried dialing Albie's number with my left pinky. I pressed the speaker phone button and waited.
"Who's this?" my boyfriend answered in his usual tone.
"I stabbed myself with a screwdriver and I'm BLEEDING!" I said, a little too loudly. "Do we have any Band-Aids? A first-aid kit?"
"Eh, that's a good question," he said. "I don't think so."
Albie suggested using a paper towel, which I did. After rinsing my finger yet again, I rolled half a paper towel tightly around my aching finger and then put a piece of blue painter's tape on it to hold it in place. Then I had to lie down, because I started feeling sick to my stomach. With my right hand high above my head, I rested for a few minutes.
After I felt better, I raided our bathroom for bandages. I found an old but unopened package of antibiotic ointment that I spread on my wound, which had now stopped bleeding. It really didn't look too bad. There was one deep part and then a long stretch of a scratch, deep enough to penetrate the first few layers of skin. The homemade bandage would have to do.
The next morning I got up early to go to the dentist. Not wanting to get laughed at, I took my homemade bandage off before I left. It was freezing outside, however, so by the time I arrived in the waiting room, my finger was pounding again. I walked straight up to the front desk and said in a tiny voice, "Do you happen to have a Band-Aid?" A children's bandage was supplied to me.
Then I had the nicest dentist visit I've ever had, despite two fillings. After an hour and ten minutes of talking about "Seinfeld," "American Idol" and University of Connecticut basketball, I walked out of there with a left cheek numb from three shots of Novacaine and a right index finger covered with a Garfield Band-Aid.
And the best thing... I'm off tile-removing duty for a while.