I know what you're thinking, 'how does one injure one's self on a flimsy, plastic container?!' Oh but it is so much better than that! I didn't slice my finger open on the plastic. Oh, no! I sliced it open on the FOIL. You know, that little foil seal that they put under the plastic lid to keep it fresh, or whatever?
Yeah. I cut my finger on THAT FOIL. And bled all over the place. I went to serve dinner to MacGyver, with a paper towel over my finger to stop the bleeding - I'm sort of a pro at this First Aid stuff by now - and told him I cut my finger open. His greatest fear of me in the kitchen is that I will somehow sever a main artery with a kitchen knife. So when I said I cut my finger, he came flying out of the chair all "What?! Are you okay? Do we need to call 911? The national guard? I know CPR!" And then I explained to him how I did it. You know, with the FOIL. And he had to excuse himself because he was laughing so hard.
And all of this took me back a few years to when I was about 17 years old. My parents left my brother and I home alone for the evening while they went somewhere. Portland, I think. I don't really remember that part anymore. Just that they weren't home. My brother was about 14 or 15 and I was being the ever responsible older sister and making dinner.
I used to do a lot of baking when I was in high school. And I made a mean chocolate chip cookie. We had this spatula that was the perfect shape for taking cookies off the cookie sheet. It was big, and round and metal so it slid under the cookie like buttah. It was my favorite spatula, and I used it whenever possible.
This particular evening I was using it to flip french fries over on the cookie sheet so they could finish cooking. I had pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven and had it on the stove top so I could flip the fries without searing my arms off, when my little brother came up behind me and did something that made me jump. I forget exactly what that was now, but I jumped and whipped around, spatula in hand.
It all happened so fast, that the next few moments were a bit confusing. I watched his face go from laughing, to a little confused, to really, really pale. And I looked down at his wrist just in time to see blood start gushing out of a 3 inch gash.
So many things went through my head at that moment. "Great. My parents leave for one night and I assassinate my brother." "What the hell just happened?!" "I wonder if I should call 911 now?" "What the hell just happened?!" "I wonder if a spatula is considered a deadly weapon?" And then the worst one of them all, "I don't know where the Emergency Room is!"
So my brother and I look at each other all like, "what the hell just happened?!" and he says, "I think we should go to the Emergency Room." And it wasn't that I disagreed with him, it was just that not only did I just attempt Spatular Manslaughter, but I was going to have to admit out loud that I didn't know how to get around the block by myself, let alone to the Emergency Room!!
But God Bless my little brother, that kid can get to you Argentina and back with his eyes closed. A talent he inherited from our father, that sadly, I did not. Not even a little bit. So he grabbed a kitchen towel to place pressure on the wound (see, I told you I've had a lot of experience in First Aid!) and I grabbed the spatula so I could plead my case to the doctors and social workers who were sure to place my brother into foster care, and me into police custody upon arrival at the ER, and we piled into the car.
And my brother, who was on the verge of passing out the whole trip, got us to the ER with no problem. I'm still so impressed. That's the difference between my brother and I. He is so level headed and calm in these sorts of situations, and I'm all, "OMG WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT!!!". We were also raised Catholic, so I think that has something to do with the guilt factor there.
We get inside and check in at the little desk and I'll never forget the lady who does the paperwork asking us what happened, and my brother saying, "my sister cut me with a spatula." And I immediately added, "On accident! It was an accident!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I'M NOT A SPATULA MURDERER!!!" She raised one eyebrow and looked at both of us for a long minute before continuing.
That was the first of many long stares that evening. After the doctor saw him, a nice lady (eh hem, social worker) who just wanted to ask me a few questions, took me into a separate room and asked me about what happened. She wanted to know why we were alone, and did that happen very often, and did our parents know where we were, and has there been a lot of fighting in our family lately, and has my brother been feeling depressed, and would he ever try to hurt himself on purpose, and has anything like this ever happened before, and I was all, "listen lady, I accidentally cut him with the stupid spatula, I swear that's what happened. See? I brought the spatula with me so I could show you." Not that it was helping my case any because, well, it's a SPATULA.
Finally, after my nice lady decided I really wasn't trying to kill my brother, and the nice lady who talked to my brother decided he wasn't trying to take himself out with a spatula, they let us go. My brother ended up with eleven stitches in his wrist that night. Eleven. From a spatula. The doctor gave us stickers and told us not to kill each other before our parents came home. I'm sure we were the talk of the break room in the ER that night.
My brother had to have a bandage on his wrist for awhile to cover the stitches, but it unfortunately it looked much more sinister than that. For weeks my brother had to endure endless awkward questions from friends and teachers asking him if everything was okay at home? Was he feeling okay? If he ever needed to talk to anyone he could talk to this teacher or that teacher. No really, he could come talk if he needed to. I really do feel bad about that.
What ever became of that spatula? I'm happy to say, I still have it. I'm thinking of keeping it for when I have children. I can tell them the story of the time I was babysitting Uncle Bryan and almost killed him with the spatula. That ought to keep them from misbehaving!
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