In Stitches...

In what must be the most middle-aged, Friday-night-injury ever, I sliced my hand open while cleaning the filter on my robot vacuum. As a result, I found myself on an unplanned mental journey of thinking about grief, responding to emergencies, and making medical decisions.

No, the robot vacuum wasn’t to blame. I reached for a bowl in the cabinet so I could soak off some of the filter grunge. I still don’t know exactly what happened, but the bowl somersaulted out of the cabinet and hit our ceramic kitchen sink, causing the bowl to sort of explode. I reached to catch it, but instead of catching the bowl and preventing calamity as intended, I grabbed a slice of flying porcelain shard. Calamity assured.

There was a lot of blood, so I grabbed a paper towel to put pressure on the wound, knowing that the rest of our fun Friday night would be dictated by whether the bleeding would stop. 

My spouse, Jeremy, heard the commotion and asked “are you ok?” I replied, simply, “no.” He sprung off the couch. 

He began cleaning up the broken pieces of bowl and blood, trying to keep our dog out of the mess while I went to assess my wound in a different sink. “Can I see it?” he asked.

“How are you with blood and guts?” I asked, thinking I should already know this about him, but that’s what panic can do - make you forget everything but the basics. He nodded that he was OK.

He said what I already knew, “That looks like you need stitches. Let’s go to the emergency room.” 

A wave of anxiety washed over me, “I don’t want to go to the E.R. and wait forever on Friday night.” Memories of long waits, typically twelve hours or more, in emergency departments with my mom, flooded me, and I sat down, feeling panicked.

Jeremy followed me. “If I showed you a wound like that, what would you tell me to do?” Wait - that was my trick! I would use this tactic on my mom when I was trying to draw her attention to the severity of the situation or help her to frame her choices in a different way. I was so proud of him, and so mad too, using my own tools against me. He wasn’t wrong. 

I began crying, “I don’t want to go to the E.R. tonight. It’s Friday night. It will take forever.” He hugged me. My whole body grieved, remembering.

“Are you having some feelings about waiting in the emergency room?” he asked.

Sobbing, I responded “yes,” as he held me tight. I searched to identify my feelings. I wasn’t afraid of the medical intervention, or of getting stitches. I wanted to avoid the heavy whole-body feeling of sitting in the hard chairs under fluorescent lights, amid coughing and sometimes moaning - waiting, wondering, dreading.

I was immediately thankful that Jeremy knew this and for the way he was responding to me - it was just what I needed at the time. He was supportive and helpful, not forceful, and he was engaged in what was happening. He was attempting to pull me out of panic and get me to think about the situation rationally. These were things we both learned to do in living with and caring for my mom. He had been my partner and my sounding board as I navigated the hundreds of medical waiting rooms during the last five years of my mom’s life.

I snapped into assessment mode. I wanted to figure out if I could wait until morning to go to urgent care. I pulled out my brand new first-aid kit (hilariously, when I recently ordered the kit, I thought “all this stuff will probably expire before we need it.” The universe can have a twisted sense of humor sometimes). I applied antibiotic ointment and gauze pads and wrapped my hand tight, but not too tight. I sat down again, watching the white gauze to see what would happen.

Jeremy acknowledged he wasn’t that interested in spending an evening of untold hours waiting in the E.R., either, but he wanted to be sure I was ok. We agreed to wait ten minutes and reassess. The bleeding stopped. Feeling relieved, I told him, “it’s actually not hurting that bad.” He raised his eyebrows. I asked what he was thinking. 

“That’s something someone would say if they didn’t want to go to the E.R., but I don’t think you would do that.” He was right. I wouldn’t lie, but I thought that's something my mom might have done. We had been in these situations so many times with her; I remembered searching her face for signs of the truth. We learned that she would often minimize her symptoms in order to avoid the hassle of medical intervention (understandable). During her last several years, she and I got skilled at navigating conversations around the cost/benefit of her medical choices. For example, “I know you don’t want to go to urgent care, but if you don’t treat this infection, it would probably be pretty painful to die this way.” She would acquiesce.

In my case last Friday, since the bleeding stopped, I decided I could wait until Saturday to get treatment, when I would also be rested, hydrated, and fed. Jeremy agreed. The whole trip to urgent care only took a couple of hours. I needed eleven stitches in the palm of my hand. The provider told me that if my wound had been any worse, the emergency department would have been appropriate. So noted for the future!

A few things struck me about this Friday night trip down medical memory lane. One is that grief can zing you when you least expect it. I keep learning that lesson over and over. Another is that having someone to partner with you in navigating your goals and choices during urgent medical situations is a gift. It’s not easy to be “the rational one” when it’s happening to your body. 

On National Healthcare Decisions Day today, I continue to be reminded of why I do this work. I am passionate about open communication and goals-focused medical decision making. Myna House Doulary is here to provide that needed partner for you as you explore your choices and decisions about end-of-life.

Stitched up and ready to talk about medical decisions!

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