Revisiting - Making the cut: a story of a first date

To kick this off, I've decided to revisit some old creative writing work of mine. The piece below was written over twelve years ago now, in the Fall of 2012. It recaps the eventful first date that I had with my then love interest and now wife, Kendra and is set in Capitol Hill in Seattle, WA.

I haven't read this in a few years until now. I'm happy to say that our dynamic of disregarding pain (me) and being more cautious (Kendra) still remains. Though, naturally am slightly less brazen. Jury is out on whether or not I'd go to the hospital of my own accord in a similar scenario.

Making the cut: a story of a first date

4:50 pm

I had forty-five minutes until I was supposed to meet Kendra for our first date at a subterranean Indian joint—Seattle’s best according to a local newspaper. I met Kendra through my graduate program. She is a fellow first-year who also hails from back east. We’d gotten to know each other as peers and friends, which led to visits at the park, her giving me a haircut and me making her vegetarian tacos in return, and eventually study “dates” at coffee shops. With the dawn of the academic quarter one thing led to another and eventually Kendra and I were slated to go on a date that I was very excited about, both for the company and the food, if I’m going to be honest. Yet, instead of putting on a collared shirt or brushing my teeth I was sitting on the edge of my bathtub with blood pouring out of my knuckle. After a couple minutes of shakiness I realized that I probably should drag my ass to the hospital. The thought that followed concerned Kendra, who I needed to text to inform her that our date may need to be rescheduled due to my sustained blood loss and open wound. Something I felt really bad about. I imagined her being very upset, mad at me, and maybe even no longer interested in going on future dates. A ridiculous set of ideas in retrospect, but I was woozy and smitten. The other reason I felt the need to contact Kendra was to inform someone of my predicament in the event that I passed out on the floor of my studio apartment. And if I did pass out I did not want Kendra to think I was being flaky.

“Hey, so umm, I just cut the fuck out of my hand. I think I may need to go to the hospital. I’ve been bleeding a shit ton for 10 or 15 minutes (this was in fact a lie, it had been more like 30) and am feeling really woozy. Can you just call me when you get out of class?” Instantly the ellipsis indicating that she was typing popped up on my screen. Quickly, I added: “May try and see if bleeding stops and then will make a decision on the hospital. Applying pressure now.” Kendra responded and told me that she would call me after class and that I should go to the hospital. A point emphasized with multiple exclamation points. Re-examining my wound I considered the prospective, now unlikely, but still possible date.

4:15 pm

Rolling up my sleeves I turned on the kitchen sink faucet, grabbed my sponge and a bowl. Washing the dishes was the last thing I needed to do before I finished cleaning my apartment. I had spent the past hour cleaning in preparation for a date at 6:00. I’d showered, shaved, and changed. Standing at the sink I scrubbed my bowl, grabbed a glass cup, pushed the sponge down to the bottom, making sure I got everything out. As I moved the sponge up the cup the glass shattered. One of the shards ripped through the area around my left pinky knuckle. Staring at the blood pouring out and the bulbous flap of skin hanging off my hand, a prolonged “fuuucckkkk” emerged. With blood pouring into the sink I grabbed the nearest kitchen rag and wrapped it as tightly as possible around my hand in an attempt to stem the bleeding. 

With the rag filling with blood, I contemplated whether I needed stitches, how stitches would affect my date in two hours, and whether or not I could stop the bleeding myself. I checked for bandages that I didn’t have and headed to the nearest grocery store four blocks away. On my way I passed a mailman who initially shot me a skeptical look that turned worrisome as he noticed the blood splotching through the heavily layered rag.

A few minutes later I entered the QFC through the entrance that leads directly into the pharmaceutical section, dodging the woman asking for nickels in the process. Once inside I found the first-aid aisle. Instantly, I was overwhelmed by my options: second skin, gauze, adhesive bandages, adhesive tape, Neosporin, hydro peroxide, rubbing alcohol. Unsure what combination would be best to stop the bleeding and start the healing I stood stumped for a couple of minutes. The length of my hesitation stirred the adjacent man who was also peering through the aisle to offhandedly comment that there were “too many decisions, huh.” “Yes,” I nodded. I then proceeded to unwrap my hand and ask him if he thought I needed stitches. Wrinkling his face in surprise at my forwardness and at the shock of seeing such a large piece of skin hanging off of my hand he said: “yes, probably, you’re going into shock, aren’t you?” Hands stirring I replied, “maybe, I’m shaky at the least. I’ll ask the pharmacist.” Once I reached the pharmacy counter I dumped my gathered medical supplies on the counter and asked the closest pharmacist if they could look at my cut and advise me. The woman who came forth instructed me that “she wasn’t qualified enough to confidently answer my question, but maybe you should, it looks pretty bad.” In an attempt at self-reassurance I pointed to the now balled up flap of skin. “Well, you see, doesn’t the skin here look too thin to sew up? I don’t think they could sew it up or glue it—too much blood.” A bit disgusted, she just shook her head in agreement. I grabbed my wares and left the counter to check out. After purchasing my $20 of medical supplies, a bit pissed at the amount I spent, I launched down the hill, avoided nearly getting run over, and got to my apartment to set up shop in my bathroom. I arranged all the medical supplies and gathered a pair of kitchen scissors and a pair of barber’s scissors. I washed my hands, cleaned the scissors meticulously, and sterilized them with hydroperoxide.

4:40 pm

I grabbed the barber’s scissors and stared at my bundled skin. For the first time I realized that the bone of my knuckle was exposed. The only way to test whether or not the white protrusion was in fact my knuckle was to prod it. So, I poked it with the barber scissors and found out that the white grizzle was actually skin that had just rolled under itself. I pulled the skin out with my hand and pressed the scissors over the leading edge of the skin to see if the scissors were sharp enough. Not sharp enough. Feeling very faint I set down the scissors and stared at the sink filled with blood, resigned.

5:00 pm

Light headed and a bit entranced by the blood thinning out as it ran towards the sink drain, I grabbed the kitchen scissors and felt along the flap of skin to see how much I could cut off without tearing through really sensitive skin. Eventually, I found the sweet spot and cut off about half an inch to three-quarters of an inch.. Still, a large thick chunk hung loose. The blood pooled under it—preventing me from gluing it, the one do-it-yourself alternative to stitches. I cleaned my hand with running water, applied Neosporin to the gauze, and placed the gauze around the wound wrapping it as tightly as I could manage. I then used my Kroger brand adhesive tape to secure the gauze to my skin. The resulting dressing was a bit of a hack job with the left side of my hand clumsily wrapped and the gauze secured with tape that would not quite stick. Brand name tape would have been the better choice.

I got up and out of my bathroom ending up at my desk to stare at the screen of my computer. Confident enough that I could go to dinner, I sent another text message: “Alright I bandaged myself up with gauze I got from QFC. Bleeding stopped. Still woozy, going to eat something and hopefully will feel better.” To solidify this I changed out of my now crimson speckled sweatshirt into the collared shirt sitting on my bed. The movement of putting on the shirt and buttoning it spurred the cut to start bleeding again.

Kendra called a few minutes later and I reassured her that I was up to dinner and a movie. That really the bleeding had stopped, that I made sure I put gauze and even Neosporin on. We arranged the details of the date and I waited until she arrived thirty minutes later by bus. In the interim I decided that I should clean the blood out of the kitchen sink, some of which had puddled in the forgotten dishes, and the now browning blood on my bathroom sink and floor. I imagined that doing this would prove that I was okay, that I did not need stitches, that no I was not bleeding, despite the blood visibly rising through the layers of gauze on my hand.

6:00(ish) pm

Kendra arrived. Again I said that I was fine. Had been worse. More than happy to go out to eat. Hungry really. And off we were. A handful of blocks later we arrived at Annapurna Café. The sight of food and the consumption of it stymied all concern about my hand. The conversation was great and mostly avoided the day’s earlier incident. The topic only came into focus when every once in a while one of us would look down at my covered hand. I would laugh and Kendra would warmly sympathize. By the end of dinner the tape was falling off, something that could be fixed with a quick trip to the nearby Walgreens. 

8:00 pm

We entered the Walgreens a handful of blocks away, the large retro red and blue neon sign welcoming us in from the corner. We made a beeline to the first aid section in aisle four. Once again I become stumped by the choice of dressings. I had intended to get second skin, the clear translucent bandage with that white goop that magically heals your skin quicker and reduces scarring. I grabbed a pack holding it near my wound, sizing it up to see if it would be large enough; it was not. Kendra grabbed another type of bandage, which was also too small. Continuing to rustle through packages, genius struck me: liquid bandage. “Don’t you think a liquid bandage would work? I mean it’s in this weird spot, still bleeding; I’ll be able to move my hand. Yeah, I think that will do.” “Yeah, that might work, it will be better for that area” Kendra reassured me. With the Walgreens brand solution in hand we checked out and left. I found an electrical box right outside and proceeded to set up shop on the cleanest looking spot. I opened the vial of liquid bandage to reveal the scent of nail polish and a little q-tip like brush to dab on the liquid. Simultaneously, I was telling Kendra that we would be able to make the movie at 8:30. “I’ll put this stuff on and then we’ll be set. I think it’s only a twenty-minute walk. How’s that sound?” Either amused or confused at the scene of me attempting to tend to my wounds on busy Broadway Avenue, where the beginnings of the Thursday night crowd were appearing, she nodded. “Sure, if you think you’ll be fine.”

I pulled it off the dressing as gently as possible, the gauze sticking to the still oozing wound. Gauze off, Kendra and I stared at the cut. The blood thickly curdled under the not quite attached piece of skin and the rest of the skinless wound filled with crimson. This “oh, shit” moment was interrupted by a long-haired blond man shoving a sign in our face that read “I bet you a dollar you’ll read this sign.” The man would do the same thing two more times. I retorted “can’t you see I’m a bit busy,” staring at my wound as I finished the sentence. Kendra spoke up to say that maybe the liquid bandage might not work, that I needed a real one. I agreed and she ran back into Walgreens to grab me one. She came out with the bandages and took one out and unwrapped it. “I’m not going to have to put that on am I? That might make me a bit queasy.” “No, no of course not, I’ll do it.” I placed the bandage on the wound and it was apparent that it was also not a suitable dressing for the wound. After trying once more Kendra suggested we go to the hospital so I could get stitches. Reluctantly, I did the thing I had been trying to avoid all day and night. Non-injured hand in non-injured hand we walked to the hospital.