A Lesson on Self-Extracting Splinters

A Lesson on Self-Extracting Splinters

Sitting in our Jeep this afternoon, just typing away all kinds of deep and thoughtful things, I suddenly heard my husband yell, “Oh. My. Goodness!” I looked to the right and saw him, kneeling over a cement block of our future house’s foundation, with his hammer in hand. Only when he stood did I see the blood streaming down Randy’s arm. Throwing my laptop to the side, I scrambled out of the hot leather seat and ran to him.

“What in the world happened!” I exclaimed, clutching his arm above the dripping blood.

Randy looked around in a daze, bewildered as if he were going to pass out. “I don’t know–I was just chipping away at the cement…” He half-heartedly shrugged. “I guess a piece must’ve flew up into my arm.”

But the more he thought about it, the more Randy knew that when cement is struck, it turns more to powder than slivers. Together, better than any CSI team, we traced back over the blood trail, to the foundation where he’d been hitting blocks. Randy picked up one hammer, then the other. The second was smeared with his tell-tale blood, and upon closer examination, we saw the end tip of it had been broken off.

Ah-ha! It wasn’t a piece of cement in Randy’s arm, but a piece of metal!

Case thus solved, we debated on what to do. Once staunched with his t-shirt (like that’s ever going to come out), the bleeding had stopped, but the quarter inch slit the metal had made had swelled up until it looked like an egg had been slid beneath Randy’s skin. Also, we knew that he needed a tetanus shot, but that could be taken care of on Monday; thus avoiding a stressful — not to mention costly — visit to the emergency room. There were no signs that the metal was causing nerve damage, and there are lots of people walking around with metal in their bodies–just usually in iron element, rather than hardware appliance form.

So Randy and I just drove home, and the whole 25 minute journey I used for my husband’s stern “Talking To.” Example: “You’ve got to start wearing safety goggles, Honey! That could’ve been your eye, for Pete’s sake!” and “I’m not letting you work out there alone if I don’t think you’re going to be safe doing it!”

Realizing I was sounding more like a mom than a wife, I brought my tirade to a stop, and we calmly got out of the car and went inside.

While munching on a snack of Ants on a Log, I resumed writing deep and thoughtful things. I was so engrossed in my story, I didn’t even realize my husband was no where to be found. Hmmmm, I wondered. What’s he up to?

As a vivid image of my husband lying in a pool of his own blood after having tried to self-extract the piece of metal flooded my mind, my calm musings turned into one panicked foray.

Throwing my laptop to the side again (poor thing; it gets such abuse), but still carrying my plate stacked with Ants on a Log, I darted out of our living room and into our office.

There I found my husband, calmly seated at the desk like Dr. Frankenstein, with a arsenal of First Aid items surrounding him: rubbing alcohol, gauze, a rare earth magnet (whatever that is!) a gleaming razor blade…

Okay. That was more than I needed to see.

Waving a celery stick at him while being careful not to lose any raisins, I garbled around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Pomis me: ew on’t cut aneee arties.”

Randy wagged his head yes and, using his good hand, motioned me out the door. “And you probably shouldn’t come back for a while,” he ominously warned.

Not a chance of that! I thought, and turned on my heel.

About 30 seconds later, Randy came out of the office and cried: “Honey, you gotta see this!”

Holding the strong earth magnet over the slit in his arm, you could see the chip of metal trying to push its way through, making a tent of his skin.

My husband looked up at me while smiling with mad-scientist fascination and asked, “You got any tweezers?”

Promising me that he’d sanitize it before use, I handed the tweezers over. He then walked out through our office door.

A minute later, if that, he returned. In the palm of his bloody hand he held a tiny sliver of metal the shape of a shrunken arrowhead.

I thoroughly inspected his arm, but the slit he made to extract the metal wasn’t bad enough to incite in me a Scarlett O’Hara-worthy swoon.

But, I tell you, tomorrow he’s going to be building our house while garbed in more protective gear than a bomb demolition squad.

That, or we’re hiring a contractor.