THE POCKET OF MY SHIRT WAS COVERED WITH BLOOD!
Okay, maybe covered is a bit of an exaggeration. But the bottom third of the pocket had several large blotches. As well as the underboob section of my pastel heather-green cotton button-up shirt. I was embarrassed that I might have been traipsing around The Gas Station Chicken Store, and Country Mart, looking as if I'd just butchered a roadside deer!
I had no idea where that blood was coming from. Surely not from my left boob! Nor the right. The blood looked like it was on the surface, not seeping through from underneath. It was still mostly red, too. Not dried brown. I set about inspecting my fingertips and hands. Just in case I had sugar free cherry limeade on them. It's a powder, but when it hits the least bit of moisture, it's bright red, and hard to scrub off skin.
Nope. Nothing on my hands. Nothing on the counter, as evidenced by a swipe with a damp paper towel. Huh. I hadn't felt any pain, as if cutting myself, when I sliced the lime. The paper plate was unbloody, and also the knife. I continued inspecting my appendages. THERE!
BLOOD WAS SMEARED ALONG THE INSIDE OF MY LEFT FOREARM!
It was midway between wrist and elbow-bend. I held my arm under the faucet, and wiped away the blood. Which returned. I wiped again. Blotted with a paper towel. Aha! There was a pinpoint hole in my skin.
What in the Not-Heaven! I didn't remember catching my arm on anything. Not the shopping cart. I'd put a couple grocery bags in the seat behind the driver's seat. Not even in T-Hoe's rear. Nothing sharp there. I'd bought a bag of onions. Speed Stick Irish Spring for Farmer H. A mini jar of minced garlic. Some deli chicken in a plastic container. Nothing to prick or poke.
I'd stopped to pet the dogs on the way in. They didn't nip. No rough edges on the shelf that holds the roaster pan of cat kibble. Wait a minute! As I was reaching through T-Hoe's passenger door, for my mini bubba cup of ice water, and my magical elixir, I'd felt a little poke. It was from the plastic toothpick I had in my shirt pocket. You never know when you might need a toothpick. Every now and then, one will work its way through the weave of the fabric, and I have to poke it back in.
SWEET GUMMI MARY! I'd impaled my forearm with a toothpick! I guess I bled like a stuck pig. Good thing I'm off that demon Xarelto, if just a nightly dose of aspirin makes my blood so flow-y! Xarelto messes with the clotting factors, and people can bleed to death, as there's no remedy to reverse the clotting inhibitor. Lucky for me, I didn't even need a bandaid, once I'd wiped off the blood twice, and applied a little pressure. Of course, most of my forearm circulation was already soaked into my shirt...
I put that shirt in the washer to soak with some Tide, and went about my business. I took a little picture, to show just how absolutely unimpressive the injury is, smaller than the head of a pin:
Good thing I didn't need a tourniquet! I imagine they're hard to tie with one hand.
4 comments:
Funny how the smallest wounds often bleed the most. I absentmindedly scratched a teeny-tiny scab on my shin recently, it itched and I'd forgotten it was there, and blood poured forth like I'd been stabbed! I held a folded tissue over it and hobbled like a bent old crone, into the bathroom for a bandaid.
Can you wrap that toothpick in something to deaden the points so you don't accidentally stab a vein next time?
River,
I KNOW! I'd have expected it from a wound on my head or face. Not on my forearm. I suppose I could wrap it in a piece of Puffs Plus Lotion. My dad had a little cylindrical holder for toothpicks, made of wood, that he got at Silver Dollar City many years ago. Of course, I could just carry the little plastic container of toothpicks in my purse. Which I don't often take in with me.
Only one end is actually a lethal weapon! It's pointy, but the other end is a little brushlike part.
If Farmer H had a gash on his forehead, you could use a tourniquet...around his neck. ;)
Sioux,
Of course I would spare no effort to save him!
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