My sophomore year of college I had a project that involved copious amount of adhesive and cutting. My weapon of choice was an X-acto knife. It was brand new with a razor sharp blade and a stainless steel handle—the tool of a true craftsman. It was the Sunday after St. Patrick's Day, and the situation was dire. My youth had blinded me to the necessity of time-management and as a result I spent my entire spring break luxuriating in the bliss of freedom. My project remained forgotten until I was back within the realms of campus and panic struck. I knew I could not finish in time. How could I? Drawings needed to be cut out, labels written, charts glued and arranged on the presentation board, all this and done in an aesthetic manner to boot! It was too much!
My roommate, Casey, helped me—bless her heart—talking to me in soothing tones the way one might speak to an animal that is on the verge of a frenzy. Her boyfriend, Jason, was coming to visit and I had only met him a handful of times. Our poor dorm room looked like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, with me amidst the mess, hunched over my work and wielding my knife with single-minded determination. There was no help for it. No thought or effort could be spared on anything that didn't involve the project.
I spun around on my bottom like I was on a swivel chair, trying to get to the board behind me with the most efficiency, and the knife impaled my right calf. The entire blade sunk into my leg and with a shriek of alarm I pulled it out again, clutching my leg and repeating Casey's name over and over again in rapid succesion. It wasn't that I had felt the knife go in, but heard it. It was the quick POP! that indicated to me skin had indeed been punctured. I couldn't look, didn't want to look. Instead I stared frantically at my friend, watching as she hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, squealing incoherently. Her sudden lack of calm and poise was unsettling to me and I began to cry, still holding my leg, head bowed down to rest upon my bent knee.
It was at this time that Jason made his grand appearance. I looked up as the door opened and, to add insult to injury, took with me an impressive line of snot that connected nose to knee. Embarrassed by my display of emotion and bodily secretions, I tried to hide my state of disrepair by pivoting away and returning my head to my knee.
"Nice," Jason said, not unkindly. A Kleenex materialized at my side and I glanced up to see him holding it out for me. I muttered my thanks and removed one hand from my leg to take it, wiping my nose in an attempt to regain even a modicum of dignity.
"How bad is it?" Casey asked from her position near the door.
I knew it was time to look. Drawing in a deep breath through my nose, I slowly removed my hands from the wound. It was about a quarter inch long, but gaping, and the sight of my skin pulling away from the raw, pink seam of exposed tissue did nothing to help matters. As if by reflex I reapplied pressure and looked up to Casey and Jason for further direction.
Casey stared back at me, obviously deep in thought, and then she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back, her face an eloquent mask of determination and authority. "Let's go to Jenny," she said. Jenny was our resident assistant and was also studying to be a nurse. Jason helped me to my feet and Casey led the way, marching in front of us like a general bringing her troops to battle.
It was at the capable hands of Jenny that butterfly strips were applied and I was given the seal of approval, hobbling back to my own dorm room without assistance. This was the best care that could be afforded to me. (The hospital had a 24 hour waiting list thanks to the those who had enthusiastically participated in the St. Paddy's Day festivities.) Immediately upon the return to our room I set back to work, lowering myself gingerly to the floor and picking up the knife from the spot I had left it. It had been a clean cut, straight in and out, with hardly any blood. This was good. I was pressed for time as it was without having to clean up a murder scene as well. Casey told me later that her first thought upon seeing that I had stabbed myself was, "Oh my God I'm going to have to finish her project for her . . . "
Fortunately I was able to finish on my own, albeit rather late at night with Jason and Casey watching from their perch on the top bunk. As I scrambled around on the floor, pasting things on the board with my right leg dragging behind me, I kept assuring them that I wouldn't be much longer. "Aaalllmost done!" I would say. "Neeearrrly finished!"
Finish I did and the next day I conducted my presentation. I limped my way up to the front of the class only to realize I had pasted one of my drawings on the board crooked. All things considered, it was hard to care.
Unknown | May 12, 2011 at 12:53 PM
Oh my gosh, I can still hear it! "Aaalllmost done! Nearly finished!" Though I have to say, if I HAD had to finish the project for you, I bet nothing would have been crooked :) You sure did downplay your torturous pain as you gimped your way about campus for the next week or so.