Don’t Come Crying to Me with Your Bleeding Head Wound
I’m officially banned from all first-aid activities.
“Don’t be concerned when I come in the house” said Jeff when he called me. I was inside. He was mowing with the tractor and brush hog.
“Um, okay” I said, no clue what he could be talking about.
He came through the door and headed to the bathroom. I’m not going to lie, I figured he’d had a bad dose of romaine lettuce for lunch or something. I walked down the hall and said, “You okay?”
He poked his head out the bathroom door and I’ve never seen anything like it. Head wounds bleed. A lot. I knew that. But this was an impressive amount of blood even by head wound standards. Jeff had so much blood running down his face that the only way you could find his eyes was if he opened them. I could not have done a more thorough job of evenly covering him in red if I’d dunked his head in a paint bucket.
The wound itself was a 6 inch gash that appeared to stop penetrating just shy of grey matter.
He looked fantastic. Like an overdone ghoul for Halloween. Or a movie star, or my first foray into makeup.
I can’t explain or justify my reaction. Maybe it’s a nervous thing, or (more likely) I’m just “weird”…
I mean, it was clear that he was okay. And although a complete and shocking mess, it was a superficial wound. The only way I can describe my reaction was a shocked sense that his head had horribly overreacted and gone on a major drama bender. So, I laughed.
Because who in the heck bleeds like that? (everyone)
Jeff was rightfully hurt by my response. Normally I’m far more sympathetic and maybe even a bit naggy about certain injuries.
But a head wound? Now that’s some funny shit right there.
Now, BACK TO WORK!!