Title: What Marcie did this weekend
Hearing: Denis Leary, No Cure For Cancer
Seeing: Some damned beautiful weather outside
"OW, DAMMIT!":
I have more strange adventures, I swear. The boy is currently sporting a cast and a big old bandage on his left hand. He'll be showing off a three-inch scar soon, too. Silly Ian tried to kill himself on the trunk of his Thunderbird the other night.
All right, it wasn't an actual suicide attempt; just an accident brought on by too much rain. We were packing the car with boxes from the old house, and he was trying to close the trunk of the car. It wasn't closing, so he tried to slam it. Well, it had been raining, and the trunk was slick with water. His hand slipped and caught on the latch. Ripped a huge gash down his wrist. I didn't really see it happen; all I knew was all of a sudden my husband was running around the parking lot of our townhouse complex howling and holding his wrist. Since he has a penchant for the melodramatic, I rolled my eyes at him and started looking for his keys so we could get back in the house to wash off his boo-boo.
Turns out he wasn't kidding. He stuck his arm under the faucet and I nearly passed out when I saw the gash down his wrist, gushing blood. I tore out to the car, fumbled around in the front seat, found his cell phone, ran back in and called 911. Of course, the operator asked me if he'd done it on purpose. "No he didn't fucking do it on purpose!!" Heh. The dispatcher sent the fire department while Ian was bleeding all over the kitchen floor. (Note to self: clean the blood up before the real estate broker shows the house this week...) We staggered outside for some fresh air, Ian holding the gash together with his uninjured hand and me looking frantically for something with which to make a bandage. Fortunately the nice neighbor lady was good enough to open to the frantic pounding on her door, AND she had a first aid kit. Bonus! I got a gauze pad and some -- I don't know what you call it, the cheesecloth looking stuff that you use to wrap up wounds. We patched him up as best we could and waited for the paramedics.
Ian ended up lying on the neighbor ladies couch with six EMT's hovering over him. They changed his bandage and sent him to the hospital after checking to make sure there wasn't anything else wrong with him (read: shock). Another bonus: the dyke EMT was highly impressed with my bandaging job. My Air Force first aid training finally pays off, the day I get out. Go figure.
So I bundled the boy into the car and took him to the ER. After about two hours of filling out insurance forms and making ghoulish Frankenstein jokes with the doctor, we finally managed to go home.
Ian ended up with twenty stitches in his arm. Pictures (and you KNOW you want to see them) are here.
The most fucked-up part? While Ian was holding his arm under the water faucet, whimpering from the pain, all I could think of was, "Down, not across."
Oh Yeah, and That Too:
This past weekend was my last drill weekend. Everybody say woo. I would like to say I went out with a bang, but I don't want to lie. My shop chief dragged his ass so much on Sunday with getting this one little form signed off... SO MUCH, I say, that I took off at noon on Sunday just to piss him off, because I knew he was delaying so I'd have to stick around. Bah. I don't play that noise. I left a note, put my e-mail address on the white board, and took off. The only hangup is I have to go back to get my shot record. Oh well; what do I care. What are they going to do... fire me?
-- marcie.
