Today at work I was using the ancient, green paper cutter in the work room for an extended period of time. You may be wondering why, in this technological age, I was spending my afternoon in the work room with the ancient, green paper cutter whose blade is about as dull as watching grass grow. It’s not important, but I was cutting out occupancy load tables to glue to the Community Appearance Board life safety submittal drawings. Fascinating, no?
Aaaaanyway, as I was standing there all alone in the work room with only the distinct scratchy/creaky/squeaky sound of the paper cutter every 2.5 seconds, I wondered how I would react to slicing a finger off.
I know, weird, right? But cutting paper is so mindless, that I started thinking how easy it would be for me to just position a finger a little too closely and then SWOOSH, one aggressive swipe of the blade and I would only have 9 digits. So, then (while still cutting of course) I devised a plan on what I would do if I should happen to lose a finger. These are the kinds of things you think about when you come from a mother who devises elaborate plans of escape from crowded enclosures and randomly gives you pocket knives, tasers, and seat belt cutters “just in case”.
First, I would try very hard not to totally freak out. 1.) because I would be really embarrassed if I cut my finger off and 2.) because I wouldn’t want my co-workers to think I was a drama-queen. Then, I would immediately wrap the bloody stump in my white cotton undershirt (yes, I was wearing an undershirt today) to staunch the blood flow while I located and grabbed my detached finger, and rushed it to the office kitchen where I would take a Ziploc bag from the third drawer on the left, fill it with ice and put my finger in the bag. I would then put more ice on top and zip it up. I’ve heard they can reattach digits if you follow this protocol.
With my hand wrapped in my bloody undershirt and my finger nestled amongst ice cubes, I would call Daniel to come pick me up and take me to the emergency room. OR, if one of my co-workers happened to notice my predicament, and offered to take me to the emergency room, I would gladly accept their offer. The emergency room staff would be quite impressed with my wherewithal to ice my finger and the doctor would efficiently reattach it. Though I would forever have limited use of that particular finger, at least I wouldn’t cultivate the nickname “stumpy”.
Fortunately, I did not have to put my plan of action to the test and finished my paper cutting endeavor without incident.