Cut it Out

I recently became the proud owner of a very sharp, professional chef’s knife. When we purchased it, the salesman would not even allow me to carry it to the checkout counter. He did let me hold a variety of choices, but hovered over me like I was a terrorist with a box cutter. I’m not sure if that was for my protection or his, but either way it was weird. I could stab someone with a pencil if I really wanted to, so I’m not sure what all the precautions were about.

Yesterday Dewie was using my new knife to slice up some oranges. I was pulled to the kitchen by a particularly long string of expletives delivered in a panicked voice. By the time I arrived in the room, she was shaking and crying, unable to put together simple sentences.  Bear in mind that this is a grown woman; a fully adult mature human being.

“Hey, look at me. Calm down. Breathe. Did you cut yourself?”

“Y-y-y-y-essssss.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Y-y-y-yessss.”

“Let me see. “ She shakes her head. “Dewie! Give me your hand.” She holds up her finger, tightly wrapped in her hand. There is no sign of blood yet. “Open your hand.” (sob, sob, sob) “Come on. Open your hand.”

I inspect the cut and it is bleeding, but not too badly. It’s just enough to pool and drip at a very slow rate. It’s one of those cuts with the useless flap of skin that gets caught on things and causes excruciating pain. It’s not deep at all, and it’s about half a centimeter long. “Alright. That flap of skin is probably going to die, so do you want me to cut it off now or try to save it?”

“No (sob) cut (sob).”

“Ok, wrap this paper towel around it and squish it really tight. I’ll be right back.”  As I dig through the linen closet looking for the first aid box I can hear her quietly mumbling “It hurts. It hurts. I’m going to bleed to death and die.” And I lose it. I’ve tried to be patient, but now it’s just funny. Still giggling, I spray the cut with antiseptic. This brings on the ridiculous reaction of whining and dancing around the kitchen. It’s still bleeding so I put a bandage around it.

Four hours later I ask her how it is and she holds up her purple band aid and says, “It’s still bleeding, see?” There is indeed a small blood stain that can be seen through the bandage. It’s dry.

“Honey, I think that’s old blood. It’s dried. If you were still bleeding, you’d be dead by now.”

“It still hurts. It feels like it should still be bleeding.”

“Let’s take a look.” She carefully peels the band aid off like she’s uncovering a surgery incision. It’s dried up and the skin flap is definitely dead. “Ok, you can leave this skin flap on, but it’s going to get caught on stuff and cause you a lot of pain. It’s also going to increase your chance of infection. It needs to come off.”

“But it’s good skin.”

“It’s dead. Healthy skin is not gray. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I grab the first aid kit again and a pair of cuticle scissors. “Gimme your finger.” She lets out a whiny type sound. “Give it to me.” She slowly moves it toward me and I quickly lop off the skin flap with the scissors.

“Ow! Wait, that actually feels better.”

“Stay tuned.” I take out the bottle of new skin. “Ok, I’m going to fill this divot with new skin. It’s gonna sting like a bitch, but once it dries it’s going to feel much better.” She looks at me with squinchy eyes.

“It’s going to sting really bad?”

“I said, ‘like a bitch’, that means really bad.”

“No.”

“Take a deep breath.”

“No.” I drop a dab of New Skin in the cut. Dewie reacts like her finger is stuck in the mouth of a wild animal.

“Don’t wave it. Hold it still.”

“It would hurt less if you stabbed me in the face!”

“Shut up. You’re such a baby. Don’t move it until it’s dry.”

After 10 minutes of whining, she taps on the now hardened new skin.

“Hey. It feels fine now.”

Shocking.