I accidently cut my thumb a while back. I won’t even tell you what I was doing, it was that stupid, but I ended up with a rather deep, inch long stab wound along the lower part of my finger.
One thing to know about me: I don’t do blood very well. This little weakness is the bane of my existence, since it makes a striking contrast to my macabre interest in the inner workings of the human body and my curiosity about potential diseases that grow in it. Thus making my interest in doctoring rather moot.
Anyway, there I was in my kitchen (I admit it – I was trying to pop the top off a salt jar with a kitchen knife), when all the sudden I see my flesh open and blood everywhere. I experienced a brief Oh Shit! moment then realized that I was gonna pass out alone in my cabana pretty soon.
So I calmed down (and looked anywhere but at my hands) and made my way next door to my closest Peace Corps neighbors. Luckily there were several health volunteers available to clean my wound and bandage it up for me.
I was saved.
I did have to keep my head between my knees while it was being mended, but I held it together pretty well. Over the following days and weeks, I even got good at cleaning it all by myself and it healed safely. All that lingers is a puffy scar and an eternal fear of salt shakers. Once again – I’m in awe of how the human body fluctuates between extreme fragility and durability.
I don’t have any feeling on the tissue north of the wound up to the nail – but really, who needs to feel EVERYTHING?