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September 4, 2013 / MissSteele

September, How I Loathe Thee

For some, September marks the bittersweet end of summer. It marks the beginning of Autumn, the mile marker for sweater weather and pumpkin flavored everything. The leaves begin to change, mums can be seen on every corner and Halloween items begin to saturate the aisles of every store in town.  Yes, many find September beautiful. I, on the other hand, despise September.

September and I, we go way back. Statistically speaking, September is not my month. Some of my worst memories took place during this month. Some of my worst break-ups and most embarrassing moments occurred in Sucktember. It’s suffice to say I’m not a fan of it. I believe it is my bad luck month, which is why I shouldn’t have been surprised when this happened:

bandage

I’m flipping you the bird, September!

Nothing like a new flesh wound to kick off September! Yes, I had to go to the emergency room on Sept. 1. But, it was September, so I knew I would have ended up there eventually before sweet October arrived to mercifully free me.

For those of you who think I am overly superstitious or exaggerating or bat-shit insane, I present to you this:

house side

house front

I built this doll house with only my two little baby hands. I hammered nails, I drilled screws, and I cut each piece of wood with precision using a power saw. Me. I did this. The entire month of August, I worked on this beast without incident. I was all set to give it to my cousin for her birthday, and I was so proud I had finished it in time.

The morning of Sept. 1, I decided to touch it up a bit and add some last minute details before we transported it to her house. It was then I noticed one of the wooden tiles needed some trimming. I had only meant to trim a sliver of wood off the tile, but the saw apparently had other plans and trimmed my finger for me.

Girl, you are getting blood everywhere.

Girl, you are getting blood everywhere.

I felt the blade hit my finger and I let out a loud, “Owe!” My husband then turned around to see me my finger squirting blood all over the garage.

“OH MY GOD!” he yelled, thinking I had actually severed my finger or something much worse. “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!”

I just stared at my butchered finger tip for a moment, then made my way inside to grab a towel as tiny drops of blood made a trail behind me. I tried to clot it with pressure, but each time I moved my hand, the blood came gushing out and our kitchen began to look like a murder had taken place there.

“Let me get my shoes, I’ll take you to the hospital!” he yelled as he frantically searched for his car keys.

“NO!” I screamed. “I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s just a little cut.” This would have been more convincing if the white dish towel hadn’t turned crimson from soaking up my blood.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “You are losing a lot of blood. It looks really bad. I think you should go to the hospital!”

Despite my husband’s pleas to seek medical attention, I convinced myself it was nothing a band-aid couldn’t fix. Or an entire roll of gauze. Same thing.

“When is the last time you had a tetanus shot?” he asked as I stood over the sink, sopping up my bloody hand with a fresh dish towel.

“Um…I don’t remember,” I replied, staring at the blood as it dripped down the drain. The thought of tetanus scared me more than anything at the time. I hadn’t had a tetanus shot in 15 years, so it was probably a good idea to get one seeing as how I just cut into my flesh with a power tool.

Being the responsible adult that I am, I did what anyone else would have done in that instance: I called my mommy. I didn’t want to freak her out and jump right into the phrase, “I’ve cut myself with a power saw.” So, I opted to make a moment of small talk with her first.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“Oh, nothing. Just washing some dishes, getting ready for the party,” she replied.

“Oh, that’s nice. So would you maybe want to come by later? Possibly take me to the hospital?”

“WHAT?!” she exclaimed into the phone.

“Yeah, so don’t freak out, but I may have cut my finger a bit with the saw.” There was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone for a good five seconds.

“Mom?” I asked, wondering if she had fainted.

“ARE YOU OKAY?!” she screamed.

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s a minor flesh wound. But, I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Can you see the bone? Do you feel dizzy? I’m coming over, let me throw on some shoes,” she said.

While I waited for my mother to get there, it started to sink in that I had actually cut myself with a power saw. Then, I started to freak out because I realized I wouldn’t be finished with the doll house in time for the party. I had worked so hard only for this to occur at the last minute. I was just upset with myself that I had let this happen. I should have remembered it was the first day of September. I should have known to stay away from power tools that day. I HATE SEPTEMBER!

My husband found me crumpled in the floor, crying like a disturbed child. “Does it hurt?” he innocently asked.

“Noooooo!” I cried out. “I…I won’t be able finish the doll house! What am I going to do?” I said as I choked on my own tears.

“Oh my God, baby. You literally just cut yourself with a saw blade and you are worried about the doll house? It’s a doll house. Not the end of the world. You can give it to her another time,” he said, trying to comfort me.

Within minutes, my concerned mother was pulling up in the driveway. I think she was expecting to see me standing in the garage with a bloody stump for a hand, so she must have been relieved.

“It looks pretty bad,” she said as she cringed at the sight of it. “I think you need to have someone look at it, even if all they do is give you a tetanus shot. You haven’t had one in a long time.”

NO BRA, NO GO

NO BRA, NO GO

I agreed to go, but I pleaded with my husband to finish touching up the doll house in my absence. “I HAVE TO GIVE IT TO HER TODAY!” I yelled as my husband helped me get dressed. I wasn’t leaving the house without a bra, come Hell or high water. That was a personal oath of mine and I would be damned if a little bloody finger was going to prevent me from going out in public without one. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hook it myself at that moment, so he had to do it for me.

“I don’t know how you guys do this every day,” he said as he struggled to fasten the hooks together. “If I was you, I would boycott these. I wouldn’t even wear them. This is ridiculous.”

“Hurry up every chance you get,” I said jokingly.

“I’m trying!” he exclaimed with frustration. “This is hard. I’m used to taking these off, not putting them on!”

Once Casanova dressed me, I made my way towards the car. “But, what will I do about the doll house?!” I asked as I began to tear up again.

“I’ll stay here and finish it for you,” he said, urging me to get into my mom’s car. “Just go, please.”

I was under the impression this was an emergency room, not a "we'll-get-to-you-as-soon-as-you-type-your-emergency-into-this-computer-room."

Please don’t pass out until your application is complete.

As I entered the ER, I was greeted by two lovely kiosks with signs that said, “Sign in here.” So, if you come into the ER for any reason, be prepared to type a fucking paper. They will not speak to you unless you have typed your information into one of those kiosks. Naturally, I was thrilled at the thought of typing, seeing as how my hand looked like a rabid wolverine tried to snack on my finger.

My mother had dropped me at the door so she could find a parking space, so I attempted to type my life story with the keyboard while still trying to apply pressure to my hand. After I was finished typing a “description” of why I was visiting the ER that day, I noticed an elderly lady at the next kiosk. I felt badly for her because she looked as confused as my friend Sam when a homeless lady grabbed him by the face and kissed him at a bar when he gave her a $5.00 bill.

“Can you help me?” she asked. She was just so cute I wanted to pick her up and squeeze her, but I didn’t want to get blood on her shirt. “I don’t know how to use this thing. I’ve never typed on a keyboard before. I don’t know how.”

“I can help you. It’s ridiculous we have to do this anyway,” I said, as I started typing in her information with my one good hand.

“What’s the reason for your visit?” I asked her. “The kiosk wants to know.”

I was really hoping she wasn’t going to say something incredibly personal or something like, “I think I’m having a heart attack.” I didn’t really want to type “fucking dying” into the description. Luckily, she said, “I think I have a spider bite.”

I’m sure the hospital thought the kiosks would somehow make ER registration run more smoothly. They probably thought it would be quicker and more efficient. But honestly, how much quicker is it for an 86-year-old woman who is about as well-acquainted with technology as an Amish person? Or what about someone who has to hold a blood-drenched rag up to their hand in order to keep the blood from squirting out onto the computer? For some reason, I just don’t think that is more efficient. Especially when I had to go through two other registration processes once I got into the actual ER.

If they were going to register me at two different points as well, WHAT WAS THE KIOSK EVEN FOR? Was it some sort of test to see if you were intelligent enough to live? Was it a way to make sure you got sick from touching the same keyboard as the guy who just came in with the swine flu? Come to think of it, that is a pretty solid conspiracy theory for job security.

Either way, the fine staff at the hospital got me all cleaned up and gave me a tetanus shot. I was thankful that the saw only took a chuck off of the tip of my finger, not my whole finger. I would show you a picture, but it’s pretty gnarly. Or as my friend called it, “meaty.”

As I sat in the ER waiting for my discharge papers, I looked over at my mom and said, “I still can’t believe I did that.”

“Hey, it could have been worse,” she replied. “You could have gotten blood on the doll house.”

She was right about that. So, there you have it- my kick-start to September. I wonder what other shenanigans September will bring for the next 26 days. I know one thing for sure, though. I will be staying the hell away from power tools until October.

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