First Debacle of 2009

Sher’s Newest - 2009 - Debacle This begs the question, "What, exactly, is a debacle?" Wikipedia defines as such:  "A débâcle is an event that turns out as a disaster." Well, my chronic events qualify in every way for this definition . . . so, shall we set the stage?  Wednesday night . . . Ah, such a soothing evening, sitting on the couch with Donny, knitting away . . . deciding to go get in my pj’s (NOTE: this is a complete act of faith on my part as I NEVER sleep] and tenderly fold away my current ‘thing’ I am knitting (I don’t knit anything specific, I just start knitting a doohickey), patting it lovingly into the yarn bag when OUCH. that hurt. I slowly pull my hand out of the bag and attached to my thumb is a long metal . . . needle? no. ??#*)$)$. Ugh - it is a tiny metal crochet hook (from the 1800’s from when they crocheted THREAD, that is how tiny it is).  Unfortunately, the HOOKED/barbed end is lodged in my thumb! It. will. not. pull. out. because. it. is. caught. up. inside. my. thumb. I can twist it half way round. But when I pull on it, I can see the correlating, opposite side of my thumb depress. Hum, this does not look good. I wait until the show Don is watching is over (meanwhile, twisting the crochet hook this way and that way, this way and that . . . have you ever seen a camel, go this way and that). Don says: “I thought you were getting ready for bed.” Me: “Well, I have a little problem.” Then, I start laughing hysterically, because . . . poor Don . . . there is no way to know what I did this time. Don: “What! What the hell, what is it! What is it, what did you do, how do you always do this to yourself - really, What is it!!!??” Oh, dear, perhaps I should have waited a bit longer . . . it is ONLY 9 pm . . . So, we move to the lighted kitchen, Don twists it himself and confirms that - NO, it will not come out when you pull it. And YES it is hooked in there in my thumb. I decide to call down Lauren (our 14 year-old daughter) - because, really the entertainment value is UNPARALLELED and there is no blood. Yet. I am still laughing at this point, but getting PALER with each twist . . . We literally stand in the kitchen pondering what to do. Don decides to investigate some more . . . prodding, twisting, pulling . . . I begin to sweat, squeal, and finally to get faint and almost pass out . . . so move to the bar stool. Obviously, I can’t take these ministrations sober and/or fully conscious. So, I cry for the freezy spray stuff . . . whatever that stuff is you put on wounds. We do that some, my thumb starts to turn a bit gray so we decide frost-bite is not the answer, although it did numb the entrance wound slightly. Lauren gets me ice water, Don gets me Brandy. The brandy makes me have spasms (as in shrieking and hollering from the awfulness of the taste and after effects), which in turn jolts the crochet hook dangling from my thumb and I almost pass out from the side effects (seizures) of/from the brandy. Don decides to use the brandy as an anesthetic instead - pouring it on my entrance wound. My hand is now in a bowl of ice, it is literally soaking in brandy on the rocks. I finally ask for him to cut off the big, heavy end of the crochet hook so that: 1) it won’t keep getting caught on things, and 2) we already took a picture so now we can trim it down. Meanwhile, Don is asking me specifics about crochet hooks: "What does it look like at the end, do you have one like it so I can see how it is hooked, if so, where would it be? blah, blah, blah . . .". Mewlingly, I answer “I don’t know, I don’t know, it hurts, it hurts . . . maybe in the studio, maybe in the trunk, maybe in the coffee table storage . . . oh my GOD, just take me to the ER.” He gives up and I hold the end of the crochet hook while he snips it with wire cutters, while I advise him on turning them this way and that so he cuts through the thinnest portion . . . Surgeon Donny now takes the cut-off end of the hook in pliers and begins an additional round of pulling, twisting . . . I begin another round of mewling, squealing, laughing, crying into a towel, twisting my body and legs with every twist of his pliers. I decide that I would prefer cutting it out NOW -or- I want to go to the ER right now. Cut it out. So we set up that equipment. During this jolly time, I decide we need to videotape it and that we need a soundtrack and decide the best song would be Bryan Adam's “Cuts Like a Knife” - - Don and Lauren agree and Don fetches the CD, sets it up on the laptop and we are ready to roll - literally. Holding onto thumb-meat with tweezers, Don uses a scalpel to slowly slice around the entrance wound. After a few moments of sawing and pulling (before the song is over), he slides the crochet hook out. Ta da! We take further pictures . . . regret that we have no Iodine, but pour some more Brandy on the wound, Don squeezes neosporin into the cut . . . and bandages me up. Today my thumb is very sore. But it is not festering, although I believe it is time for me to renew my tetanus shot. Quite unfortunately, my plan to write a novel has been thwarted as this has already been done.   A future video will be released on YOU-TUBE featuring the procedure, my sound effects, and the background music of "Cuts Like a Knife."
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