Dick & Jane Go To The Hospital

Last night, Flip discovered he had misplaced the manual to his recording equipment, which required both of us to ransack the apartment. We checked and rechecked all the usual suspects. He throws nearly everything into a large, antique trunk of mine, even though I have asked him not to. The Christmas ornaments are in there. They don't do well crushed under heavy mining equipment. I finally wised up and contained them in boxes with hard sides.

I suggested he get down a plastic milk crate which holds a lot of odds and ends and resides on a high shelf in the closet.

He found the manual along with many anonymous rejects from everyday life, then noticed his hand was bleeding profusely. We washed it and poured peroxide over it. It kept gushing. I managed to get his wound in a tight embrace with several bandaids, blotting all the while. He didn't whine too much. I was pleased. I went back to reading blogs.

An hour later, it was still bleeding through several changes of bandaid. I suggested again that it needed stitches, and this time he agreed to accompany me to the hospital.

It was a cold night, but the stores had closed and there wasn't much traffic. I even found a parking space two blocks away. I wanted to hold his hand but was afraid I'd kill him. Or get blood on me. The triage nurse looked at his hand and agreed that it was lucky Flip is left-handed. (When I injure my hand, it's always the right one, too, but I am right-handed. This has caused no end of inconvenience and grief, as well as surgery.)

We were ushered into a curtained area where another nurse, Scott, who kept asking us if he didn't look like "Dustin," administered a tetanus shot. He did, kind of, in an overblown sort of way. Like in "Tootsie." Dustin Hoffman is a great actor. Scott is a great nurse. And they're both male, give or take.

There was a lively debate over whether or not Flip needed stitches. The wound wouldn't stop bleeding, but on the other hand, it was over a knuckle and was more of a divot than a cut. Scott didn't think there was anything to sew together.

Enter the doctor. He looked like Wallace Shawn. He's the one in Woody Allan movies who always gets the beautiful women even though he's short, bald, and astoundingly ugly because he's hung like a horse. The doctor didn't play "Who's My Face?" with us. He was nice. He even acted like he wanted to be there, watching Flip bleed out on the cot.

The wound was sterilized and wrapped in plastic stuff that looked like it used to be a mask in a horror movie. (Again with the movies. Do you sense a theme here? ) We were fitted out with directions for its care and feeding, given several rubber gloves so Flip could keep it dry while showering, and discharged.

I stopped at the drug store to buy antibiotic wash and ointment while Flip visited the liquor store for his own idea of medicine, and we went home. He hit the remotes and I went back to blogging. (I've already seen all the Law & Order episodes at least three times.)

He bled through the bandage again. We blotted him around it and I asked if he wanted to go back to the hospital. He didn't. We wrapped it in gauze and an Ace bandage.

He finally took his injured paw to bed, and is still sleeping. I've checked him for breathing and don't see a pool of blood on the floor, so I'm hoping it finally clotted. I just discovered streaks of blood on the bathroom light switch and around the sink. It looks like a massacre took place in there. His DNA is everywhere. I should probably save it for evidence. Detective Benson will need it when she gets here.