A welcoming tale of veggie wars

What to say, what to say? I have kicked around a few ideas in my head, but I feel my comeback should be glorious, it should be a display of shining quirky humour. Something that makes us both sigh, giggle, and feel the tension lift from our shoulders over the sheer ridiculousness of what I have to say.

I thought of updating you with my life. New city, new job, new new new. Nah...

I could tell you that I am grossed out by the fruit flies who are maxin' and relaxin' in my garbage bin under my desk. Nah...

Or I could tell you about one fateful night in April when my life flashed before my eyes. Yes!!!

Picture it, Sicily, 1923...oh wait, that's Sophia's intro to stories, not mine.

Picture it, Ontario, 2010...This kid right here took a house sitting gig for the month of April. Freedom, space, independence and the grocery list were mine all mine. I savoured every moment I possibly could.

The tragedy I am referring to involves a knife, a sweet potato and my left hand. I was skillfully preparing my dinner, had just finished peeling the sweet potato and was forcing the knife down the length of the sweet potato when it spitefully resisted my attempt. My dear hand slid down the tip of the knife, splitting open the side of my hand.

Shock took over. I stood still for a moment, eyes wide open, staring at the blood pooling on the counter. Visions of Grey's Anatomy flashed through my mind, and I quickly determined I needed to move -STAT! Bandage this gusher up!!

I dashed to the washroom, cleaned 'er up a bit and with deep breathes, I examined my gaping wound. It was an inch across, and guts were popping out of it. (Yup, my professional medical terminology says our hands have guts). I swallowed back the little bit of barf that had risen in my throat. I slathered on some antiseptic cream and bandaids galore. Upon exiting the bathroom my panic began to rise again. Suddenly I was dizzy...I reached out for the wall. Holy crap, I couldn't see!!!!

On my hands and knees I made my way to the living room. I spread out on the floor, legs raised on the couch. Slowly my vision came back.

**Let me interrupt here. I just feel the need to tell you that this is the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to me, medically speaking. The best (worst?) I've got otherwise is a splinter in my heel. Hence, I was lost on the proper emergency etiquette to help myself.**

I lay still on the floor. Do I go to the emergency room for stitches? Clearly I needed stitches, I mean the GUTS OF MY HAND were popping out! As most people would do nowadays, I consulted the internet. Hmmm....hospital's website, not that handy. Time to call TeleHealth.

The delightful and thorough nurse I spoke with for about 10 minutes determined that I needed to get stitches. After detailing my gash in every way possible, it was her "recommendation."

I hung up the phone. My breathing became faint again. Heavens have mercy! I needed to calm down! I sat on the couch, my vision clouding again (son of a gun, how do these blind folks get on in their daily lives? Bless their souls.). Several minutes after it returned, I made my way to the bathroom mirror for a pep talk.

"I am ok. I can drive to the hospital. I am not going to bleed to death. I am not afraid of stitches..."

Feeling puffed up with positive thoughts I gathered my purse and made my way to the emergency room.

The Triage nurse was a little younger than me and open to the bad jokes I made about vegetable battles. She laughed, examined my wound and wrapped my hand endlessly in gauze. "Yup, you'll get some stitches for that!"

Crap. But really, it was what I was expecting.

I waiting for two hours to see the doctor. Two hours. Not so bad. Until I tell you there was only one other person in the waiting room. Ah, my tax dollars do a good job!

Finally, I am in an examination room. A little sweat on my brow, but I kept telling myself it's no big deal. I don't have to watch the wee little needle as it pokes and pulls at my flesh, weaving thread back and forth to close me up.

The doctor comes in.

Him: "So, what do we have here?"

Me: "Well I lost a fight with a sweet potato."

Him: (Who did not think that was amusing) "Hmmm..."

He unbandaged my hand. He pokes at my cut, ignoring the possibility that it might actually hurt me. He sighs.

Me: "I called TeleHealth and they said I should come for stitches. I think it's kind of deep. What is that that is popping out of my cut?"

Him: "That's fat."

(I gagged a little. Ew.) He looks at my hand again, and honestly, he flared his nostrils at me.

Him: "I'll get you a bandaid."

Me: "I don't need stitches??"

Him: "Uh, no."

Clearly he is not impressed. In less than five minutes he puts a bandaid on my hand and sends me on my way. Hmmph. He so did not understand the trauma I just went through.

Anywho, I decided to recreate this event and document it. An orange was used in the place of the sweet potato, but this does not remove it's credibility as a recount of events.

There I am, preparing my meal.

(Note I used a plastic knife this time, to ensure that I did not actually cut myself again.)

Son of B!!! I've sliced myself open!!

(It felt more dramatic to cut my wrist...I just love the theatrics!)

Ah man, there is blood all over the place!!

(Don't worry, it's just ketchup!)

Passed out cold.

Now folks, no need to worry. Obviously I am ok now. I have survived this horrific moment in my life and moved on. Though my scar will forever remind me of that fateful night...