And the moral of the story is…

While I’ve been stuck waiting here in the US for this latest visa escapade, I’ve been able to find a number of things to keep busy. By far and away the biggest project is the ongoing construction happening at home. My family is remodeling the kitchen, and as everyone knows, before you can remodel, you have demolish and destroy. So on Saturday we began pulling down cabinets, pulling up floors, cutting down plaster and two-by-fours, etc. It was fun. Oh, was it fun.

The cabinets were all nailed to the wall with lots and lots of nails, making it practically impossible to pull them all out, so we improvised with a sledgehammer. There’s something extremely satisfying about taking a 10 pound sledgehammer to something, and watching it crumble and splinter after a well placed blow. Surprisingly I didn’t hurt myself at all doing that.

As the cabinets came down, the power saw came out – we were cutting through two by fours and plaster and nails and wire that ran through the plaster supporting it. I was upstairs when a big piece bit (about 8 feet long) of plaster and two-by-fours and assorted sharp pointy bits came crashing down and smashed into the sink. It missed hitting my dad and my grandpa by a few inches. Again, no one was hurt.

We picked up this chunk of plaster and began carrying it outside. As we did so, Dad warns me “Be careful you don’t cut yourself on any of the sharp pointy bits. Look at that sharp wire sticking out right next to your arm. Be careful.”

“Sure dad,” I said… (Meanwhile, I’m thinking “of course I’ll be careful. I won’t cut myself.” (Here’s where someone got hurt.)

Ten seconds later, the plaster snapped in half about six inches from my hand, sending the plaster and assorted sharp, nasty, pointy bits into the ground. My arm was in the way, unfortunately, of about six of those pointy razor bits. Two of them were extra long and extra sharp.

I thought, “Ow, that hurt.” And looked down and saw two big cuts and a lot of little ones running down my forearm. (Well, I saw one big cut, and what I could only assume was another big cut because of the amount of blood gushing out. It was one of those gashes where you try to wipe away the blood to see how deep it is, and you can’t…)

So, after a few minutes of elevation and pressure (don’t say you never learned anything from reading this blog – if you cut yourself, elevate and put pressure. Unless you shouldn’t. Then don’t.), of Dad and Grandpa hovering, bringing me bandages to wrap it in and giving worried advice, it stopped bleeding enough to see that I needed to get it checked out. So, after three hours, one visit to the ER, 9 sutures (four in one cut and five in the other), one nasty cup of coffee, one tetanus shot, and one nurse named Larry, I was back home, good as new (except for the Frankenstein stitches in my forearm.) You can’t win them all though, right? I guess next time I go through the list of my scars and injuries, I’ll just have one more to add to the list…

Hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving…


1 Comment

Filed under adventures, construction, injury, scars

One response to “And the moral of the story is…

  1. Anonymous

    that is crazy…do you still get to help with the kitchen?


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