birthday stitches

Sunday was Branson's birthday.

He is officially old enough to reduce out car insurance prices and to rent a car at a relatively reasonable price.

With both of us working, and not very many expenses, {thanks to our very little debt, awesome landlady named grandma and no need to purchase diapers yet} we have been able to spend a little more and make occasions such as Christmas and Birthdays quite luxurious.

Branson didn't have a very long birthday list, so I had to fill in the blanks myself. But the two things on his list were:

A new iPod (with as much space as possible)

An extra-long camping pad (because he's so tall)

So we splurged a little and got the iPod, some movies, shorts, a new Buck knife, a metal file (which he was looking for the other day, but realized we didn't have one... and when I say 'we'... I really mean 'he' - let's be honest: when am I going to need a metal file?), and work gloves. My parents joined us for the party and gave Brans a new cooler and the extra-long sleeping pad.

Present-wise, along with the company of my immediate family and Kendyll's little fam, it was a wonderful celebration. We had a delectible dinner of pot roast, mashed red potatoes, fresh green beans, a garden salad and raspberry jello. And of course, we had chocolate cake and Thin Mint ice cream. It was quite the celebration.

However...

- - - - -

More times than I have fingers has Brans told me about a few birthday parties as a kid that were ruined by a trip to the hospital because his younger brother Dane had broken a bone or needed stitches. "How rude of Dane to steal my birthday thunder!"

I would always just laugh and humor him, because that's what a good wife would do, right? Yes, well, that is what I did.

- - - - -

Before church, I had prepped the pot roast and put it in the crock pot on low. And when we got home from church, I needed to do the dishes. Because what's more embarrassing than hosting a party at your home with a full sink of dishes? Not much. Or maybe a lot. But it stresses me out, so I made sure I had plenty of time to get my kitchen into tip-top shape.

While methodically washing the dishes, I saved the knives, ceramic bowls and pans for last. I washed a few knives, washed a bowl, and discovered a lone knife... nay, a lone Cutco Knife calling my name from the other side of the counter. .

Wash me, Shan. Wash me!

Well, I wasn't about to leave this lone Trimmer to soak in kitchen germ, so I brought it over to the sink and began to rinse and wash it, displaying my gentle care for this little knife.

And then it attacked.

For some reason the church video of the Indian picking up the snake
and putting it into his shirt just popped in my head -
You knew what I was when you picked me up.

I had turned the knife over and barely caught the edge of my finger. But it scared me and it hurt. So in my shocked state of mind, I tried to pull my finger away. But, Little Trimmer wasn't done. My finger effortlessly slide along the blade, the DD Recessed Edges slashing through my skin. I saw blood immediately. I believe I yelped - for those of you not familiar with a yelp, it is somewhere between a cry and a scream. It's like a cry/scream/moan/whoever-is-near-come-fast sound.

Anyway, I yelped.

And I saw blood squirt from my finger. You know in the movies when blood shoots across the screen? Yup. I witnessed that from my finger to the other side of the counter. And instantly applied as much pressure as I could muster. I yelled out "BRANS! I NEED YOU! FAST!" and I heard his footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

"Did you cut yourself?" he asked.
"Yeah. Get me a bandaid, will you?"
"Sure. Here's a paper towe-... That's really bleeding."

I could tell he was a little uneasy. You see, I married a pretty tough guy. High tolerance for pain. Strong as an ox. He just doesn't do too well with blood.

"Yeah...(about a 10 second pause) I don't feel so good. I think I should sit down." So sit down I did. I just kerplopped right there on the kitchen floor in my Sunday dress. And right as I was sitting down I noticed quite a lot of red on the paper towel wrapped tightly around my index finger. I asked Brans for another paper towel and ever-so carefully unwrapped my finger. Blood gushed, falling on my black and white skirt, and Brans delivered the crisp, clean paper towel. I needed, not wanted, needed to see how deep the cut was so I cleaned off the dripping red stuff and gently opened the laceration.

I spread the cut apart, and looked into, not at, into my finger. I could see sliced muscle tissue. Unfortunately for my loving husband, he didn't get a chance to vacate the premises before my need to examine took over.

"You need stitches. We're going to get stitches," he said as he quickly left the room.

Now, you have to understand that my extent of medical issues has been severely limited to strep throat in high school, an undiagnosed abdominal pain, and stitches is my head when I was less than a year old. My reasons for hospital visits outside of those 3 issues are simply stated as: None. I haven't been deathly ill. I haven't broken any bones. I haven't had cuts bad enough to need stitched outside of that 9 month old situation - And I definitely don't remember that. So the thought of having to go to a hospital, let a lone an ER started to freak me out. ERs are expensive, the line is always ridiculously several hours long (so I hear) and I wasn't about to put myself through that.

But Branson was adamant. And upon reflection, it was probably a good call. I could, after all, see inside of my finger.

Except, the cake was still in the oven. I couldn't leave it to burn our house down! Priorities! A minor finger issue vs. house burning down. So I pleaded with Brans to wait 5 minutes until the cake was done. He agreed and pulled the cake out of the oven 4 1/2 minutes later.

And we got into the car and began our trek to seek stitches.

The closest hospital to our house isn't covered by our insurance, so I was determined not to go there. And the closest covered hospital was 15 minutes away. But then I remembered an IHC InstaCare just down the street, right across from my old high school. I don't know if InstaCare is a Utah-exclusive blessing or if it's a national, western, or global thing, but Brans had never been to one, or even heard of one for that matter. I mentioned it and said I thought maybe they could do stitches, and said a quick prayer that they were open on Sunday.

Much to my relief, they were open, and there wasn't even a waiting line. We walked in, filled out some information and were in and out in about 45 minutes.

But in my shock, all I could think about was how I had ruined my husband's birthday. He had told me so many times how Dane ruined his birthday with hospital runs, and his first married birthday now fell into the same category. I ruined his birthday by slicing my finger and needing stitches.

Through tears, I whimpered "I'm sorry I ruined your birthday," as we waited a few minutes to be called back. Brans gave a little chuckle and rubbed my back. "You didn't ruin my birthday."

"Yes I did. I'm so sorry."

I don't know if he knew that arguing with me would just affect my blood pressure, or if he knew that it was better to let my guilt linger and subside with my shock. But he just rubbed my back and told me I was going to be just fine.

"Shanna?" the nurse said my name right.
"Yeah, that's me."
"Did you cut your finger?"

No, I just poured red food coloring on a napkin and wrapped my finger in it to fake you out. Late April Fools! Seriously, is there really a reason to ask such obvious questions? I thought to myself.

"Yeah. Pretty Deep."
"Ok. Well, we're just gonna get your vitals. Have a seat in that chair."

Apparently I had lost a lot of blood. Which I knew. I'm not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that I saw blood squirt. I closed my eyes and replayed the event in my head. I remembered that blood was all over the kitchen. But in the crazy mental state seeing my own blood had placed me in, before I could leave the kitchen, I had to clean up the mess. What if it stained my counter? Or my white porcelain bowl? Yeah. I couldn't leave it to chance. So I wiped up what I could before Branson made me leave.

The nurse's voice brought me back to the present state of my arm being squeezed. "Did you lose a lot of blood?"

"I soaked through a couple paper towels and there was quite a puddle in my sink..."
"Oh. Ok. I was going to say that your blood pressure didn't look right. But I feel better about it now that I know that."
"Great."

She escorted me to a gurney in another room to wait for the doctor. It was only about a minute before she walked in. She talked to me for a minute, got the story, made sure Branson was ready to hold my hand, and then started to get ready to sew my finger back together.

I was gearing myself up for the stitches. I could feel my finger pulsing, the top of the cut different than the bottom. It was a weird sensation. I kept telling myself it wouldn't hurt that bad, that I would be fine. That I could handle a little more pain.

The doctor asked me on a scale of 1 to 10 how much pain I felt in my finger.

I told her a 5.

She unwrapped my paper towel, telling me it was ok to just let it bleed while they got started. I could feel the blood oozing down my finger. My eyes kept looking at my hand, while my head kept telling me to look away. I turned to Branson and told him to tell me to stop looking the next time I tried to. The doctor informed us that I had cut in the perfect spot - just missing the ligaments and nerves. Had I cut lower or higher, there would have been a lot more damage, leading to a more intense, invasive procedure. So at least I have good aim, right?

I spent so much energy preparing myself for the stitching. But what I wasn't prepared for was the 5 shots of Lidocaine into my finger to numb it. I think it's the most pain I have ever felt. Had the doc asked me to put that pain on a scale of 1 to 10, I would have screamed "8.5!"

Shots don't usually get to me. Maybe it was because it was in the tip of my finger, along with so many nerve endings. Or maybe I was just caught off guard. Either way, it hurt. Bad. With each shot, I gripped Branson's hand even tighter. He'll never admit it, but I may have hurt him. I closed my eyes for the rest of it. I was so caught on how much the shots hurt that I forgot they were sewing my finger closed.

"Alright. All finished." She had sewn like the wind. 4 stitches in four seconds! (I'm sure it was longer than that. But still.)

I was surprised. It was so fast. So painless. (After the Lidocaine, of course.) Ok, I lied. It was totally painful. The lingering pain from the Lidocaine shots, the throbbing pulse of my hand. The aching in my head, my rapid heartbeat. It was not a pleasant experience.

They bandaged me up, and sent us on our way after telling me that I can't get my hand wet for the next 3 days, and after that, still be cautious around water. And to come back in 10 days to get the stitches out.

On the drive home, I made a mental list of everything that was left to do for Branson's birthday dinner -

Boil and mash the potatoes
Cook the green beans
Decorate the cake
Set the table
Make a garden salad
Wrap the last present
Finish the dishes
Straighten the living room
Find a decent tablecloth...

This is the point where I got depressed. Still so much to do. And 15 people were coming over for the party. And I couldn't get my right hand near water. I felt the hot tears stream down my cheek. Brans noticed, and reading my mind offered to help finish getting things ready.

So the Birthday Boy finished the dishes. And boiled and mashed the potatoes. And cooked the green beans. And set the table. I felt awful.

My brother Tay showed up a little early and helped make the salad and finish the table.

And I limped through decorating a cake with my left hand. Not easy for a right-hander to do. It looked awful. Worst cake decorating job I've ever done. It only added to my depressed state. But with the help of my husband and brother, everything was ready in time. With a few minutes to spare, even. I'm lucky to have men in my life that are willing to help out with the domestic stuff.

And luckily, the rest of the evening went without a hitch. The meal was delicious - best pot roast ever. The company was great. The food was wonderful. The presents were great and other than the pain in my finger, everything was just lovely.

I'm hoping that Brans won't look back and think that I ruined his birthday. I don't think he will. He probably won't even remember. I hope.

- - - - -

So while I heal, I'm bandaged up pretty well. And my finger is still swollen. And it hurts. I've never realized how often the muscles in your index finger are used. But boy, have I taken note that turning keys in ignitions, swinging arms while walking, reaching in any direction, and typing all use the muscle I severed. Its painful. I'll move a certain way, thinking I'm being careful, and feel a pain shoot up my arm. And truthfully, I'm not sure which pain hurts more: the flexing of the muscle, or the tugging of the stitches... (Don't think I pull at my stitches. I don't. Obviously - there are 3 pounds of gauze and bandage in my way. I just don't know if when it hurts, if it's the actual wound, or if I'm creating new ones where the stitches are. That's a pleasant thought: Stitches ripping through my finger. Yuck.)

But either way, only 8 more days of this nonsense to go.
Then back to my standard 10 finger routines, opposed to the current 9 finger adaptations.
It only took me several hours over several days to complete this post. Depressing.
I'm telling you - Index fingers are vital! Things are so much harder without them!
And no more playing with Little {Mean} Trimmer.
Promise.