Spare Us the Cutter, Part 2

Continued from Part 1

Sam is among the clearest thinking individuals I know so I found myself teetering on the edge of disbelief that I was actually rounding up X-acto blades, rubbing alcohol, and a sense of trust in the god that makes fingers stay on hands.

I’ve seen this before - people wrongly putting their fate in someone they trust, just because they trust them with things like secrets, or sewing buttons on blouses, when it’s clear they should not trust that person because that person is no more trustworthy than the shysters on the street who tackle you into buying home theater speakers from a van. I’m thinking in particular of the many sorry ass brides whose codependent loyalty, whose hopes for the impossible, allowed them to agree with their trusted aunts, who eagerly volunteered to make their dress, knowing full well that they would look like a side of beef wrapped in a mound of lace doilies.

This little skirt steak was about to be flayed open by his coworker, better known for his ability to keep commitments and secrets, his math skills, and depth of Star Wars trivia, not for simple out patient procedures.

Sam scrubbed the blade and the handle with a menacing vigor. We agreed that the shop latex gloves would be too dirty to begin with, so he was going to bare-hand this one. Dawn offered me a wallet to bite on. He positioned my hand on a stack of paper towels. “This is going to bleed, we don’t want it on your desk or your keyboard.” And he began to slice my skin.

I am so glad for pain receptors. All the little lambs in the slaugterhouse screeched at full velocity down Agent Starling's throat before anymore blood could be drawn.

“FUCK YOU! What the hell am I thinking letting you do that?” I grabbed my hand back. “Holy fucking shit. I’m driving to the hospital. This is not the dark ages, they are right up the street.”

He looked at me as if I had just tortured and killed Christmas.

I was happy to be far from Sam, and happy to have regained my late-showing common sense, but I quickly came to understand at the urgent care unit why I even allowed Sam a chance. He had the right spirit, just not the right tools. The place felt like a way station for tortured souls. Names were called every five years, the beings associated with those names groaned and shuffled to the little portal that beckoned them. Wailing, crying, and pleading provided the accompanying din. It was about as clean, efficient, and confidence inspiring as the DMV.

After sucking the marrow of my magazine’s bone, I heard my own name and raced to the portal. They weighed me, looked at me, looked at my hand, took X-rays, and gave me a tetanus shot in the left arm.

Doctor One was given the wrong tools, but tried to make it work anyway since she knew that it would be almost impossible to find what she actually needed. Although it was fruitless from the beginning, the lidocaine allowed me to play along and continue rereading my magazine so I wouldn’t have to watch her personal version of The Old Man and the Sea.

After 45 minutes of repeated lidocaine injections and a great deal of frustration, Doctor Two was summoned. She wore yellow crocks. Unorthodox.

The two of them worked together, Doctor One held the skin open, while the un-gloved Doctor Two, poked, jabbed, dug, and picked at the lead. They left the room often, returning with a different tool, but never the right one. At one point, I asked them if I could just be allowed to live with the lead particle and just trust that my body would eject it, and even though they agreed that sure, it would work its way out eventually, I could see that they weren’t going to let this one go.

We all get the look. The I’m-going-to-get-you-you-little-bastard look. And we pick at that little ingrown hair, that loose wire, that tick, whatever your little bastard is. We love the challenge of getting that little bastard and we each make our own special face. Sam had this look, and they had Sam’s look too, only they had the advantage of lidocaine but nothing more. Dr. Two, the one in charge now, worked barehanded, using only a scalpel blade, because someone had stolen all the handles. They also used paper towels, and were equally baffled by this seemingly simple procedure.

I was getting bored. I read every printed word in my Automobile Magazine, even the ads for male enhancement pills. I didn't want to look at what they were doing, but it just seemed wrong, and I actually wished so badly that I had brought Sam's sketch with me to illustrate the better approach. Finally, when I could no longer take it, and after a great deal of struggling while sporting the look, they whittled the particle down to a cracked pepper and worked it out. They high-fived each other with their eyes. It took two hours. Someone else dressed the wound, and shot me in the left butt cheek with something else. I limped to the front desk and I filled out paperwork.

I was so eager to get out of there, that I didn’t notice how spacey I was, nor did I realize I could not move my left arm. My pinky didn’t hurt nearly as much as my entire left side. I don’t regret going, but I regret the shots. I couldn’t think straight when I returned, and now, days later, my butt and arm remain sore. They just love to give shots at hospitals.

So here I am, still not at full range of motion in my left arm, and Sam still believes that this all could have been done here at my desk. I see that he is proud of his part and disappointed in me for wussing out. Once you get the look, you need to satisfy the look. So I think for his upcoming birthday, I’m going to get him a sterile scalpel with a handle, a really nice pair of tweezers, some lidocaine from Tijuana, and I’m going to slide sideways on an old wooden bench.