Thursday evening, I was getting ready to cook dinner. I somehow forgot how long it took to actually cook this particular recipe, and so I was starting much later than I’d intended.
Eventually, JB made his way into the kitchen and asked if there was anything that I needed help with. (This was probably just his way of trying to hurry me up, because he admitted he was hungry. I doubt it had anything whatsoever to do with the kindness of his heart.)
Regardless of his reason, I wasn’t about to turn down help. I asked him to chop up the already cooked chicken. He spent the next 10 minutes turning the kitchen upside down looking for a certain knife to do this with…and never found it, leading both of us to wonder where the hell that knife may be. He finally chose a different knife, and started chopping. (We can only hope that one of the kids has not stolen it and stashed it in their rooms just waiting to get revenge on us the next time we ground them. We still don’t know where it is.)
Then I heard, “AAAAHH!!” followed by him rushing to the sink. He wouldn’t let me see much, so I didn’t know how deep he’d cut his finger right away. He disappeared to the bathroom to use supplies out of the 500 First Aid kits he has stashed in there. (Boy Scout motto: Always prepared.) While he was back there, I threw away the part of the chicken he’d been working on, tossed that knife in the sink, and finished chopping the chicken up myself. (What I should have done all along, I suppose.)
So I’m mixing stuff up, he walks back into the kitchen, and I ask him to grab something out of the pantry. He proceeds to tell me there is nothing in there like what I was asking for. I’d already had a crap day and I just stood there, probably looking like I was very close to losing it…he ran out of the house saying he was going to the store to get what I needed.
He gets home, I put the needed ingredient in my mix, and put my casserole in the oven to cook. I glance at his finger, still heavily bandaged from almost an hour earlier, and realize that…it’s pretty damn bloody. I convinced him to unwrap it so I could get a good look at it. He’s weird about seeing his own blood, so I was still having to force him to let me see…but the man had actually managed to cut a small chunk out of the top of his thumb, and it was still bleeding quite heavily. I told him he needed to go to the Urgent Care nearby and get it checked out. I knew it wasn’t exactly a stitchable wound, but he couldn’t just bleed all freaking night.
He got there at 6 pm, and they were set to close at 7 pm. So he was one of the last patients seen. During his waiting room time, we played Matching With Friends on the phone, and then he let me know he’d been called back to an exam room. It was here that the man started sending me pictures of his wounded, bleeding thumb. Gross pictures, might I add. I did wonder how on earth my husband, the man who can’t stand the sight of his own blood, was managing to take pictures of this with his phone. I found out later he was having the nurse do it. Crazy man.
Anyhoo. He came home with a pretty, purple, bandaged finger. He said they’d used some special concoction of stuff that he’d had to stick his finger into, and he claims there were like little stalactites of his blood in the water. I’m not going to lie and say I have a clue what he’s talking about, because I definitely don’t!
We finally got to eat our dinner that night, and then he promptly had me re-bandage his finger, simply because he couldn’t handle the purple wrap. Such priorities.