In about 2012, after I had to retire from nursing, I started a small photography business. I had taken some lovely photos of a waterfall and wanted to frame them. But I couldn’t find the right frame for the photo. I kept 8×10 and larger frames but none of them was what I really wanted for this photo. I looked in another batch of frames I had and found a frame I liked but it was missing the glass cover.
As I looked a little further I found a glass cover from another frame that had broken. I thought to myself, “Hmm, let’s see how well this cover fits the frame.”
As I placed the cover into the back side of the frame the fit was almost right. I wondered if forcing the cover into the frame could make it stretch the frame just a little bit. After fitting the sides and bottom of the glass into the frame I used both thumbs to push firmly but gently on the glass cover to see if it could be forced into the frame somehow.
“Crack!” The sound of glass splintering was the first sign that the cover and the frame were not going to fit! Then I felt the pain of a slice along the outer edge of my left thumb from the top knuckle down and inch. The bleeding began.
Having been a nurse for 37 years I knew exactly what to do. I washed my wound with soap and water and wrapped it snuggly with a couple of paper towels folded over to provide pressure. I then squeezed the paper towels together with the other fingers of that hand to slow the bleeding. I was quite calm and called my first son. “
“M could you meet me at the emergency room. I need some moral support. I just cut the side of my thumb. The bleeding is under control but it will need stitches.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can!” M replied. “Can you drive yourself or do you want me to pick you up?”
I replied, “I can drive there alright. But thank you.”
I think M got there about the same time I did. So we walked in together after my name was called. After the vital signs, an assessment of the wound were done by the nurse and the doctor, I was told I would need some Xylocaine to numb the thumb so it wouldn’t hurt when the stitches were being done.
My left hand was washed carefully and dried and a pad placed under my hand. My son was right by me but was not fond of seeing me being sewn up. But I was greatly bolstered by his presence and his holding my right hand for assurance.
The Xylocaine was drawn up and the needle inserted. As the numbing medicne was injected, I felt a sharp pain and gasped from the unexpected flash of pain I felt. (Let me add here that I have a high tolerance for pain.)
M calmly but solicitously asked, “Are you alright?”
Before I could answer the ER doctor replied,” Why yes. Thank you!”
My son and I looked at each other and began to laugh! What a stress reliever that answer was! M and I both relaxed and trusted that doctor more than ever, knowing that he could have a sense of humor and lighten our stress and worry by inspiring us to laugh.