In Stitches

Busta foot

So, I had a doozy of an accident a few days ago. Five stitches, a tetanus shot, and prescriptions for both antibiotics and Vicodin later,  I’m hobbled and in pain.

Here’s what happened. WARNING: Details and at least one pic below are pretty gruesome.

Thursday night at around 10 p.m., Paul and I were enjoying a pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Willie Nelson’s Peach Cobbler Ice Cream.” Before we inhaled the entire thing, I offered to put it back downstairs in the kitchen (our house was built in 1880; the kitchen is in the basement). Going down to the kitchen involves descending a metal spiral staircase. (You can see what’s coming.) Now, I’ve made this trek a number of times, although

Willie Nelson's Peach Cobbler Ice Cream from B&J's

I loathe the damned thing. In fact, it was a condition of mine upon buying the house that we have it replaced with standard stairs. Apparently no architect in the world can make that happen. So.

Adding to the drama is the fact that the overhead light that illuminates the spiral stairs is broken. (Did I mention our house is old?) I could almost hear the Irony Gods laughing as I headed downstairs, tried the dead light switch for the eleventyteenth time, and called to Paul, “We really ought to get this thing fixed,” happily licking the remaining peach ice cream from the spoon.

Now, I should also point out that because I’m used to descending the metal stairs in the dark, I am particularly careful to concentrate on when the last step is coming up. I’ve certainly anticipated the end of the staircase one step too soon and made a none-too-graceful leap onto the rug below. Well, that’s exactly what happened this time, but instead of making a leap, I brought my right heel down along the edge of the bottom rung.

The Evil Staircase

My first reaction was a deep inhalation through my teeth and the thoughts: Damn, that stings. I can’t believe I did that. AGAIN. This smarts.

When I reached the kitchen and turned on the light to asses the damage, I was stunned to find not the nasty abrasion I expected, but a smiley face torn into the back of my heel, just below the Achilles tendon. The skin had separated, leaving a jagged semi-circle of flesh just kind of sitting there like a piece of mozzarella on a tomato slice.

I sat down and called upstairs, “Paul? I need some assistance.”

Duh.

After managing to wrap up the mess, we began the decision-making. Thing is, I don’t do hospitals. But I knew I needed to go to the hospital. The only problem was that our dear son was sleeping away upstairs. No way I was going to wake him up. (Around here, I started going into shock and feeling all woozy.) So, we went back up The Evil Staircase and into the living room.

Reading Albert Brooks as they prep for my suturing

Since we had no bandages in the house, he had to drive all the way to New City for the only 24-hour drug store in the area. (Downside of having moved from the city.)

He returned with butterfly bandages, I pulled my shit together (literally and figuratively), and we went to bed.

In the morning, we took a family trip to Nyack Hospital. I brought my book to read (Albert Brooks’s new novel, Twenty-thirty). I was cared for by a rotating succession of nurses, doctors, interns, and attendings.

In the end, I got five stitches in my ankle instead of the ten they would have put in had I come to the hospital promptly. Now there was an infection risk. I’ll also have a nasty scar, one that will most likely look like The Joker’s smile. (I know a couple hundred teenage boys who would pay to have that…)

So, pray for no infection, dear readers. I’ll pray for a new staircase and that the docs will give me a refill on the Vicodin. If they won’t, I’m saving those little beauties for my birthday.

Iodine bath