(This is my 1,000th post to this blog!)
I scratched my cheek after closing the door behind the repair man and I could feel it running across my palm, down my wrist and onto my fore arm. The warm, wet, red liquid that is the lifeline of every human.
The liquid, bright red and thin from medication designed to make it that way, flowed freely from my thumb at a point were it looked like a small chunk was missing. How did I get cut? I wondered as I glanced at my profusely bleeding digit.
Then I remembered that I pinched my thumb in the door as I closed it, but it never hurt. I walked away unfazed, but unbeknownst to me, the door that pinched me kept a souvenir piece of skin from my thumb, about a half inch in diameter.
I returned to the kitchen and rinsed the wound which still did not reveal itself with pain and I could see the the wound was deep, about as deep as all the layers of my skin.
I wadded the wound with paper towels and applied pressure as I opened the first aid drawer to retrieve a bandage, but as I pulled away the paper, the wound expelled blood faster than a poet exuding words on a date with his muse.
I tried to apply antibiotic ointment, but the blood simply pushed it aside on its quest to be relieved of my body. My blood wanted freedom and now it found its escape. I tried multiple times to do it on my own to no avail and eventually admitted defeat and sought my wife, who as always saved the day.
She treated the wound, dressed it and applied a pressure bandage slowing the bleeding. It oozed for a day or two or would start again on it’s turbulent rampage if I hit the finger, which I seemed to make a habit of as the days progressed.
Living with sarcoidosis and being subject to the perils of prednisone consistently for the past thirteen years had rendered my skin thin. One of the many side effects caused my long term use of the drug makes it very difficult to not become wounded by sometimes the simplest of altercations.
A simple brush against a wall to which I paid no attention would result in another jail break of my precious blood.
A precarious predicament for a man that uses knives to earn his living.