Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Doing The Humpty Dance

You know your day is going pear-shaped when you find yourself tumbling down a flight of stairs holding a bus tub filled with ceramic and glass...

Somewhere along the way, you start to wonder: Gee, just how did this happen? Then, you might start thinking: Crap, this is how people are killed. Of course, that's when you start to realize that falling down the stairs with a tub full of glass means that it's shattering everywhere and showering you with glass shards.

In mid-tumble, you wonder if you really are tumbling or just kind of bouncing off each stair tread. Sliding? Unlikely. Painful? Well, you're too preoccupied with trying to find a way to mitigate the damage, if possible.

It's not until you're lying on the concrete floor, trying to figure out if you've broken something, or seriously injured yourself, that you begin to realize that maybe this kinda sucks.

There's still no pain. Not really. You're too stunned to cry out or curse. You're just assessing the damage to your body: can I move my body parts? Do I feel my body parts? Seems like everything is still there and in working order.

Only then do you notice that your hand is bloody.

And your shirt is torn.

And you're covered in glass shards.

When you finally get around to picking yourself up off the floor, you try to keep the glass particles from falling into your eyes and notice that hey, you're actually kinda messed up.

Luckily, pulling away the torn shirt reveals just a small puncture wound and lacerations on the tummy and you start to take inventory of your damage:

- Lacerations on the forearm
- lacerations on your shin
- lacerations on your face
- bruises all over
- lacerations on your palm

And a seriously deep cut on your finger that's spewing blood all over.

Good thing you wear black clothing.

Sadly, gauze bandages and pressure don't stop the blood emanating profusely from your finger. Is it severed? No, not really. But a Flintstones Band-Aid isn't going to stop the flow. Time to go to the hospital.

That's when a new calculus kicks in: do you call the ambulance? It's not that serious but an ambulance might be helpful sympathy from your girls later. Then you remember hearing that it costs $400 to have an ambulance come to the scene - pass.

Maybe you should call someone to ferry you to the hospital. It could generate sympathy from the girls but a true swashbuckler would simply grab some thread and sew himself back together.

Okay, I'm not that tough.

In the end, I piled on the paper towels, changed my shirt and jumped into the car to drive myself to the hospital. Much cheaper and I have my own wheels to go wherever I want after the hospital. In a couple of hours, I'll be fine, sewn back together and on my merry way.

But for now, the biggest thought is how much it's going to cost to replace the serviceware I just shattered and embedded into my skin...