If I wasn't confident before, I am definite after tonight's events.
I was sitting in the living room, catching up on Facebook, watching LSU beat Florida (I hope), snuggling with the dogs - typical Saturday night routine. I know, watch out, it just may get too exciting over here in South Carolina. In the middle of all this, I mosey into the kitchen to check Cheney's venison defrosting in the microwave. He's baiting a group of coyotes so he can hunt them. (Another story for later). As I walked into the kitchen, the back door swings open and Cheney says, "I think I may need stitches."
Honestly, I didn't take him seriously and didn't pay him much attention until it registered that blood was dripping down his arm onto the kitchen floor. I fought the immediate gut reaction to hurl and tried to man-up and take care of the wound. I pulled the first aid kit out of the cabinet and struggled to find butterfly bandages in hopes that we wouldn't have to make a hospital run. In the meantime, blood is still dripping and my stomach is flipping just like The Zipper at the Livingston Parish fair (which is happening this weekend). I find the bandages and immediately realize that I have no idea how to use them. At the same time, Cheney asks me to inspect his cut closer to see if it needs stitches. I took a deep breath and turned to face him at the exact moment he bent his finger and blood squirts out - not oozes, but forms a nice little arc as it gains elevation before it drips. My knees buckle and I grab onto the washer to keep from falling. The metallic smell of blood has reached the back of my throat so now I can taste it.
Sweat forms on my brow, I start seeing spots, so I tell Cheney, "I'm going to pass out," and work my way to the bathroom to splash cool water on my face in hopes that it will help. I worked my way back to the kitchen swearing to get through this and actually be able to help. However, it just wasn't in me. As soon as I rounded the corner, I found my way to the laundry basket that had just been filled with warm towels. Taku, our JRT, was very concerned with me and persisted to lick me in the face. Each time I tried to get up, I couldn't stomach it. I was positive that I would throw up in an instant.
Fortunately for Cheney, he has a stronger stomach than I do. Of course, that isn't really saying much because obviously I don't have a strong one at all. But, I know from previous experiences that if he wasn't able to doctor his own wounds, we'd be in deep trouble. Thank goodness there was a doctor living next door when he cut the tip of his thumb off with the Pampered Chef mandolin slicer.
So, if I didn't know when I dropped out of the nursing program at Southeastern, I know today that I just wasn't cut out for that life.
I was sitting in the living room, catching up on Facebook, watching LSU beat Florida (I hope), snuggling with the dogs - typical Saturday night routine. I know, watch out, it just may get too exciting over here in South Carolina. In the middle of all this, I mosey into the kitchen to check Cheney's venison defrosting in the microwave. He's baiting a group of coyotes so he can hunt them. (Another story for later). As I walked into the kitchen, the back door swings open and Cheney says, "I think I may need stitches."
Honestly, I didn't take him seriously and didn't pay him much attention until it registered that blood was dripping down his arm onto the kitchen floor. I fought the immediate gut reaction to hurl and tried to man-up and take care of the wound. I pulled the first aid kit out of the cabinet and struggled to find butterfly bandages in hopes that we wouldn't have to make a hospital run. In the meantime, blood is still dripping and my stomach is flipping just like The Zipper at the Livingston Parish fair (which is happening this weekend). I find the bandages and immediately realize that I have no idea how to use them. At the same time, Cheney asks me to inspect his cut closer to see if it needs stitches. I took a deep breath and turned to face him at the exact moment he bent his finger and blood squirts out - not oozes, but forms a nice little arc as it gains elevation before it drips. My knees buckle and I grab onto the washer to keep from falling. The metallic smell of blood has reached the back of my throat so now I can taste it.
Sweat forms on my brow, I start seeing spots, so I tell Cheney, "I'm going to pass out," and work my way to the bathroom to splash cool water on my face in hopes that it will help. I worked my way back to the kitchen swearing to get through this and actually be able to help. However, it just wasn't in me. As soon as I rounded the corner, I found my way to the laundry basket that had just been filled with warm towels. Taku, our JRT, was very concerned with me and persisted to lick me in the face. Each time I tried to get up, I couldn't stomach it. I was positive that I would throw up in an instant.
Fortunately for Cheney, he has a stronger stomach than I do. Of course, that isn't really saying much because obviously I don't have a strong one at all. But, I know from previous experiences that if he wasn't able to doctor his own wounds, we'd be in deep trouble. Thank goodness there was a doctor living next door when he cut the tip of his thumb off with the Pampered Chef mandolin slicer.
So, if I didn't know when I dropped out of the nursing program at Southeastern, I know today that I just wasn't cut out for that life.
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