Scissors are Dangerous...

Remember the warning we received numerous times as children? Don't run with scissors. My opinion? The warning should have been more elaborate. Running with scissors isn't the only activity in which these seemingly innocuous objects are dangerous.

Manda's family came to visit this past weekend, so we spent most of last week cleaning the house. Part of cleaning the house included shredding all the junk mail in the office. Of course this includes those stupid fake credit cards they send with your name on them. These little bundles of joy won't go through my pansy shredder. This is where the scissors come in. They needed to be cut up. I was prepared for this task with my shiny new scissors.

Manda was manning the shredder and handing me the pieces of plastic as she discovered them. My job was simple. Hold the little bastards over the trash can and cut them up. Like I said simple.

Now. I wasn't a scissor virgin. I'd used them before. I would even go as far as to call myself an experienced scissor user. I know which finger goes in which hole. I even have decent forearm strength for those long cutting sessions. Not bragging. I'm just stating the facts.

Manda and I were engaging in polite but loud conversation over the grinding shredder. Everything was fine until my A.D.D. kicked in and I took a mental vacation. This lovely vacation was cut violently short when the scissors entered the end of my finger.

Now when I say "entered my finger", what I really mean is: they stopped in, said hello and then took part of my finger with them when they left.

I was shocked at the sensation, or pain if you will. I paused to ask myself, "did I just do what I think I did?". Yes I did. I didn't dare look at my finger. Everyone knows looking only increasing the pain. Instead I grabbed my hand and made a beeline for the bathroom. I yelled "damn it" continually.

Now Manda, having seen my face as the scissors stopped in to say hi, knew I'd hurt myself. This was only confirmed by my repetitive chanting of "damn it". Now we've been together long enough, that when one of us hurts ourselves, the other person doesn't freak out. It's more like "*sigh* what trouble did you manage to get yourself in now?". So, she called out to me a few times. When all I would say was "damn it", she decided to come check on me.

I had my hand under the running water. My head was on the front of the sink. I was still unable to look at what I did for fear my entire finger would be gone (a little dramatic I know, but that's what it felt like). At this point, I'd added a word to my two word vocabulary. I was now exclaiming "damn it. Ouch." I believe my foot was also tapping the floor rather vigorously.

After many attempts I finally allowed Manda to look at my finger. Her reaction didn't help matters. "Oh baby. That's bad." Gee. Thanks.

I finally mustered up the guts to lift my head from the sink and saw all the blood in the sink. Now, if I was queezy this is where I would have vomited and passed out. Outside of my period, I don't think I've ever bled this much.

An hour later, after many gallons of water, several feet of paper towels and Manda finding the missing piece of my finger in the trash, the bleeding slowed and we were able to wrap it in gauze.


Now, the next day I learned that not all gauze is created equal. While attempting to change the bandage I discovered the importance of the phrase "non stick". After an hour of soaking my finger in hot water and hydrogen peroxide, we were unable to remove the gauze from the wound. It had decided to become part of the healing process. I was left with only one option. I had to rip the gauze out of the end of my finger.

Yes. I cried. Yes. It bled. Yes. I said "damn it" a few dozen times.

We promptly went to Walgreens and purchased the appropriate non-stick gear.

So. This experience taught me a few things.
1. I need supervision when using scissors.
2. "damn it" is a great pain reliever.
3. "non-stick" is important for more than just pots and pans.

Peace Out.
:o)

PS. Because of the splint on my finger (the splint is to prevent me from continually re-opening the wound. I had a problem with this.), this took almost two hours to type. Talk about effort.