Before I begin this post, I must warn you that it contains copious amounts of stupidity (on my behalf) and a bit of blood. Still want to read on? Alright, you brave souls, let’s get on with the story then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you…
It was a lovely Thursday morning when it happened. The sun was peaking its glorious head above a sea of clouds. The birds were flaunting their musical abilities in a series of high-pitched notes.
And I was in the kitchen chopping onions. Is that a huge red flag? Yes, yes it is. As I cut into the vegetable’s crisp, juicy flesh, I suddenly felt the harsh chemical sting. My eyes began to water, blurring the lime green cutting board and infernal purple bulb. When I decided that it was too much, I realized that I could counter the terrible pungency of the onion by washing it in cold water!
Looking back on this incident, I look back at myself and say: Stupid, stupid, stupid. At this, one might ask, “But why? You seemed to have been acting rationally at the time.” But I say: The surface of an onion is already incredibly smooth! Why reduce what little friction exists between the onion and a frighteningly sharp knife by dousing it in cold water!? Anusha, stop what you are doing! Leave the kitchen! That onion may remain uncut!
Alas, past Anusha does not/cannot hear present Anusha’s cries. And now let us move on from my ashamed aside, and back to the story.
My eyes still stinging from the onion and my vision slightly blurred, I felt my hand quickly slip with the knife, tearing into some of my flesh instead of the onion’s. I felt a harsh stab of pain and quickly pulled my right hand away.
I had nicked my right index finger! Oh, curséd blade! Oh, cruel fate! Oh….wow, that’s a lot of blood.
Indeed it was. I looked to see a steady stream of bright red liquid issuing forth from the wound. But the cut was so small! Why wouldn’t it stop?!
Remembering a snippet of what I had learned in health class, I comically shot my wounded hand into the air before rushing to look for a T-shirt. When I finally found an old green one, I tightly wound it around my angrily throbbing index finger.
Not one to quietly suffer, I ran to my parents and alerted them of the situation. In retrospect, I’m actually surprised they could understand anything I was saying. For you see, in my immense shock, pain, and stupidity, I had been sobbing intermittently, making my speech both confusing and incoherent.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. OH NO. I remember the panic seeping in. What if I could never use my right index finger ever again?? What if I was doomed to only have nine working fingers out of ten?! Just because of a moment of recklessness and unfathomable stupidity! WHY. WHY?!
In the midst of my meltdown of epic proportions, my parents had contacted several of my aunts and uncles, all of them being skilled medical practitioners. After informing them of the precise nature of my injury, they all agreed that it was enough to stop the flow of blood with a piece of cloth, keep the arm in the air, and take plenty of vitamin C.
“How long will it be until I regain function of my poor index?!” I cried.
“3-5 days,” they amiably replied.
My panicked past self would be happy to know that my index finger has healed quite well since then. I don’t know exactly why or how that knife nicked me that day (Most likely my own lack of caution). But I do know this: that pernicious knife, and not me, was feeling sharp that day.