So, making decisions is a learned skill. Some people are better at it than others; just like some people can play baseball and some people can’t. It’s something you have to practice at, over and over again. Otherwise, you’ll sit on your couch deciding where you’re going to eat for longer than you’d actually sit down at the restaurant.
I like to consider myself someone who can make decisions easily. Of course, with more important decisions I take my time and weigh my options. Maybe if we’re deciding on pizza or chinese take-out, I can’t make a decision because either way I’m fucked down here.
Sometimes, when it comes to my own health, I may not make the best decisions. I don’t like going to the doctor. Mainly, because they always want to hurt me, whether it be resetting a broken metacarpal, sticking in a finger in my ass, or in this case, possibly stitches.
It was recently Thanksgiving and obviously, my job had to do a pot luck. Originally, I was going to make a classic Eggplant Parmigiana, but then my boss told me she was buying a pumpkin pie. I’m not going to spend hours frying eggplant and making sauce, if people are buying pre-made food to bring. Instead, I’ll just make roasted potatoes, a classic Thanksgiving dish. Honestly, someone brought Bob Evans microwavable mashed potatoes and they were probably better than my warmed up potatoes cooked the previous night. Which makes what happened, exponentially worse.
I got home from work and I needed to slice up the potatoes for the potluck. The problem was that I wanted to go to the gym at a specific time, so that when I finished at the gym, I could go straight to the bank to sign some paperwork. I only had twenty minutes to wash and slice all the potatoes.
I said to my wife, “how fast do you think I can cut all of these potatoes?”
She responds, “I don’t know. Why does it matter?”
I start fucking slicing and dicing as quick as I can. I just sharpened my knife, too, so it felt like I was cutting through butter. Right at the moment when I was really hitting my stride, I slipped. Or maybe, I didn’t. I’m not really sure what happened. But I looked down, and there it was. A chunk of my finger on the fucking cutting board.
I immediately dropped the knife and held my finger up like I was examining a freshly picked booger as the blood poured out. My wife says I started screaming like a little girl. I’m pretty sure she was lying. Dripping blood, my wife, the nurse, tried to help me get the bleeding under control.
I didn’t know if I should go to the doctor or not. Well, let me rephrase that, I knew I should go to to the doctor, but I wanted my wife, the nurse, to tell me I didn’t have to. This is why I brought up the decision making. I can’t make decisions when I’m currently injured or in pain. We ended up not going to the doctor. I was really angry at my wife because I couldn’t make this decision at the time and I was expecting her to make it for me. I have already informed her that in the future, she is officially in charge of all decision making if I become injured again.
I saw my PA friend the next day, who told me not going to the doctor was not smart. She ended up having to re-bandage it and giving me antibiotics for an infection. But here’s the kicker, when she removed the gauze that my wife and I had put on and I saw the wound again, I fucking fainted. To be clear this is not a close friend, so quite fucking embarrassing.
So, my wife, the nurse, is officially in charge of decision making regarding all injuries to me. I should probably make her sign something to make this binding, cause if I fucking die she gets to cash in my life insurance policy. She basically has stock in NOT making decisions about my health. I just have to hope that she loves me enough to not want to make her student loans disappear. Which is really, really, hard to believe.