Nards is always wary whenever I am in the kitchen holding a knife. I really don't blame him. Initially, he was alarmed every time he heard a loud noise followed by my cry of pain. When it became to frequent, he'll still run to my side to assess the damage I've done to myself, nurse me and cuddle me but the element of surprise is no longer there.
That all changed last night.
Although there was no panic (he never panics), there was an edge to his voice as he ran to the kitchen and asked me with an alarmed voice what happened. I was in crying in pain, my fingers burned from the deep cuts, that I couldn't answer his question. I couldn't tell him that I was slicing lemons for our glasses of Cokes; and the lemon (slippery little bugger) just shot out of my hand as the knife came down, and that my finger got sliced instead of the lemon.
I was freaking out. The blood was continuously flowing, I dripped on the white kitchen floor. Nards instructed me to put my cuts under running water. It still wouldn't stem; our bathroom sink was spattered all over the place (it was a forensic masterpiece). And the pain caught me off-guard. I'm so used to cuts and bruises, and I didn't anticipate the degree of pain a deep cut would give me. I was howling the whole time I was in the bathroom.
Nards took a large glob of cotton and pressed it down on my open wound, and taped it just to stop the bleeding. It slowed down the bleeding, but didn't totally stop it.
Ang salarin: Lemon Coke. Notice the glob of cotton taped on my finger. It was still bleeding at this point.
After a while, Nard fashioned a little splint from a cotton bud that he cut in half. He put a proper bandage on the cut and added the splinter. He's such a boyscout no?
maybe you should have a first aid kit in the kitchen.
ReplyDelete^ now, we do. :P
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