Trigger warning: gore.
After raising the spindle a few inches, I reached across the table, peeled the tape, and, as I pulled my hand back with the finished cursor, snagged the back of my left index finger on the V bit.
So. Much. Blood.
Urgent Care PA: “You may have nicked the tendon. Get thee hence to the Hospital Trauma Center.”
Trauma Center MD: “See that white fiber down in there? That’s the extensor ligament. Looks OK and should heal fine.”
Trauma Center MD: “Unless you’re one of the 20% who get an infection.”
Me: “Unless I’m one of the few who contract an MRSA infection, then just up and die.”
Trauma Center MD: “Well, yes, there’s that. If the wound swells or smells bad, come back here quickly.”
Dutchess County is now on the trailing edge of the Omicron wave, but the Trauma Center is attached to the Emergency Room and had a steady stream of customers arriving by ambulance. While being entirely content to not be their most urgent case, I had plenty of time to examine the wide variety of instruments parked in the room with me:
I’m on a ten-day regimen of surprisingly inexpensive Amoxicillin + Clavulanate Potassium capsules, which is apparently what it takes to knock down a potential infection these days.
Five days later, it looks like I should pull through:
So I hereby swear a mighty oath on the bones of my ancestors to always sheath my blades. You should, too.
But we all knew that last week, didn’t we?