Escapades of the Phalanges: part 2

Ooooooooooooh! (Sound of Alex sucking in her breath at memory of the odd szgrngh sound of the blade’s victory.)  I felt it right away, but had no immediate conception of the severity of the injury.  I flipped the blade off right away, grabbed a paper towel to staunch the bleeding, and headed to the meat cutting room.  “James!” I cried with a surprisingly calm voice as I dropped my bombshell, “I just ran my hand through the slicer.”  Okay, I know it wasn’t my whole hand, but….like I said, I had no immediate conception of what had just transpired except: there’s a lot of blood and it hurts!  His eyes got real big and he said, “Whaaaaat?!  How bad?”

My brilliant response: “I don’t know.”

The poor lady who just wanted a little cheese for her supper was all worried, and blubbered, “Oh!  Are you okay?  Oh, oh, I’m so sorry….”

I was still cool as a cucumber in the fridge, and I assured that I would be fine; I still had 10 phalanges, no big deal, etc.

Yeah, right.

Brittney (young fellow employee) asked me how bad it was, and offered to take me somewhere if I needed help.

“Naw,” I replied.  “I’ll just apply some pressure, and it should be fine.”

Yeah, right.

James finished up my poor customer (on a different slicer, of course), then asked me if I needed to “go somewhere.”

Brittney made me remove my temporary-tourniquet-towel, took one look and said “We’re going.”

She called Ben Nilsen (one of our official bosses), and he told her to head over to the immediate care clinic (henceforth ICC, ‘cuz I’m lazy) off of Rockville road.

Alex Nilsen handed me a cold water bottle, and Brittney grabbed a pile of towels, and she and I were off!

I borrowed Brittney’s cell phone to calmly inform my mom that I had cut my hand on the slicer, and that we were heading to the ICC, and that it was all cool.

Yeah, right.

It had now been about 15 minutes since the incident.  We dashed into the ICC, with me gripping the towel with all the strength I had to control the bleeding.

Brittney informed the receptionist that I had suffered a finger slice from a deli slicing machine.

The receptionist replied with a dull gaze, “Have you been here since April 5th?”

What?!  I’m bleeding, hello?!  At least lift your eyebrows in a bit of compassion!

“No.” was my eloquent response to her query.

“Okay, where’s you place of occupation? Boss’s name? Work phone number?  Etc.”

Brittney answered these for me (confession: I still don’t know the work number.)  Plus, I was slightly occupied with keeping the blood inside my body and off the carpet.

“Okay, now here’s a form for you to fill out.  It will be a little while, and then we’ll get a doctor to tend to you.”

EXCUSE ME?!!  One hand has suffered a major reshaping experience, and the other is gripping a towel with all its might!  Just how do you expect me to fill out a form?!

Actually, I just stood there and tried to smile weakly.  But that is what I was thinking!

Brittney kindly filled out the forms with the necessary information, and then returned it to the desk clerk.

We sat in the waiting room for another ten minutes (which felt waaaaaaaaaaaay longer, let me tell ya.)

 “Alexandra? Excuse me, what was your birth date again?”

Oh, I think, she probably thinks it says June 13th instead of July 13th.

Me: “July 13th, ma’am”

Receptionist: “Yeah, but, what year?”

Me: “1991.”

Receptionist: “1991? 1991?!!”

Me: “Mm-hm.”

Receptionist :“You’re SIXTEEN?!!!”

Me: “Yup.”

Receptionist: “Oh.  I thought you looked a lot older than that.”

Me: “umm….nope.” What in the world is that supposed to mean, “you looked a lot older than that.”?!

It had now been about 30 minutes since the incident.

After a bit, I felt just a tad funny, and so went up to Miss Ice Cube and inquired how much longer it might be. 

“Oh, since your bleeding is controlled, it will be a little while.  They need to clear out the rooms first, and then you’ll be seen.”

It’s not controlled, lady!  Just to prove my point, would you like me to remove the towel, and let the blood drip all over your keyboard and fancypants paperwork?

Actually, I just stood there and tried to smile weakly (again).  But that is what I was thinking (again)!

Moma showed up, and so Brittney could go back to work.  Finally, about 45 minutes or so after the incident, we were admitted to a room.


(Although it felt like forEVER, I realize that it could have easily been a couple of hours.  I’m grateful that I could be seen at all by a medical professional.)

Keep going to the next post for what transpired behind the closed doors of the treatment room. *cue scary music*

Published in: on July 6, 2008 at 9:32 am  Leave a Comment  

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