I’m sitting here watching blood seep out of my index finger. I sliced it open this afternoon while cutting lemons (and yes, it stung as much as you would expect). It probably could have used a stitch.
But I cannot go to the emergency room in this town anymore.
Why, you ask?
Because it is a very small town, with a very small hospital, and the same doctor seems to always be working the emergency room when I need to go there. And because I am a wild, reckless woman who likes to live life on the edge and walk the path of danger, my visits have been many.
And as a result, said doctor thinks I’m hot for his form and that I am deliberately hurting myself to be close to him. Strangely, the psychotic part of this delusional theory doesn’t seem to frighten him. I kind of get the impression he finds the idea appealing, which makes him even sicker than a girl who would send herself to the emergency room on purpose in order to stalk the doctor.
The first time I met Dr. McHottiePants [not my nickname – this is what he is generally known as around town…with the women, anyway; I suspect the men call him something different], I had been playing with my scroll saw (it was an art commission thing) and despite the protective goggles, a stray piece of sawdust managed to make it in and scratch the crap out of my cornea. Real sexy.
Not a week later, I discovered that working out a lot and not drinking enough water can lead to a kidney stone. Dr. McHP jumped up on the bed with me and scooched up close. Putting his arm around me, said in what I think he thought was a schmexy voice, “Drea…we have to stop meeting like this.” I recoiled. NOT the way you want someone to behave who has just been handed a cup of your urine. Seriously. Ew. Again, real sexy.
After this, there was another sliced finger incident, and another time, a pulled tendon.
The capper was the night I stumbled in, barefoot, with a completely shattered arm and wrist after taking a bit of a tumble (completely sober, I swear to god). In the car on the way to the hospital, I was chanting my mantra, “Please don’t let it be McHP, please don’t let it be McHP…” And who do you think it was? Of course. And this time, he not only gets me in a bed, but gets to render me unconscious in order to set the bones. (Doesn’t that sound x-rated?)
Of course, the benefit of having an emergency room doctor who likes to flirt with you is that they make sure your cast matches your pretty pink dress.
Anyway, my cut today took hours to stop bleeding, but it finally did. And now, I’ve just noticed that there is blood all over my hand again. But I’m not going to the hospital.
I’m pretty sure I saw a sewing kit around here somewhere.