A STITCH IN TIME

 So I was in the kitchen cooking a spaghetti that would make an Italian go "Mama Mia!  How does-a she-a do it?", when, in a fit of what I can only assume was early onset dementia, I decided to wash the empty cans of tomato sauce so that they would be sparkling clean in the recycling bin and the guy who picked up the recycling would declare "Jesus!  Would you look at the cleanliness of these cans!  Why, they're SPOTLESS!  I wish I could find the woman who washed these cans and personally thank her for making my day and demonstrating that if we all pull together we can make this world a better place for our children, and our children's children, and our children's children's children, and our chil...."

Unfortunately, we will never know what he was going to say next, as he was hit by a falling elephant and squashed beyond recognition.  His own wife, at the funeral parlour, said "I don't recognize him", farted and left.  Incidentally, the elephant was taking flying lessons and accidentally hit the eject button instead of the left turn signal.  He failed his flying test. 

But, anyway, back to my story.  I was washing the cans and singing a merry tune when I stuck my hand into a can and nearly cut it off at the elbow. (My hand - not the can.  Please try to keep up.)  I let out a string of curses that would make Blackbeard himself go "Oh, come on now.  There's no need for that kind of language."  I wrapped my hand in a towel and headed off to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.  (Obviously, as going to the farthest hospital would be time-consuming, costly and just plain stupid.)

Well, the good folks at the hospital were delighted to see me and, to demonstrate the fact, made me sit there for four hours before a doctor showed up and gave me three stitches.  I was delighted!  I had never had stitches before and couldn't wait to show them to everyone.  Oh, the stories I told!  And every time I related the story it became more dramatic and, before I knew it, I had twelve stitches and had almost lost a finger.  People were actually saying to me "Twelve stitches?  I thought it was nine?"  And I could hear myself saying "Well, it WAS nine, but they put in four more to keep the original nine in place."  And then someone said "FOUR more?  That makes thirteen stitches!"  To which I replied "Exactly!"

And my story would end there if it wasn't for the fact that a mere six months later I was back in the kitchen peeling potatoes with a vigor that only the Irish could understand, when I missed the potato and nearly cut off my thumb.  I called my daughter and said "Robyn!  Quick, look at my thumb!  I think I need stitches!"  And she said "Ah, no, Mam, I can't look at stuff like that."  Which I took to mean "I'm in the middle of a game and I don't want to lose my score, even if the woman who brought me into this world is bleeding to death on the kitchen floor."  Then my husband strolled into the kitchen, looked at my hand, and casually said "Oh, yeah, you need stitches all right."  To which I replied "Thank you for your professional opinion, doctor."  

So off we went to the hospital again, but this time I got a different doctor who was a bit of a cowboy, if you ask me.  I asked excitedly "How many stitches do I need, doc?", and he said "Oh, three should do the job."  And I said "Could you make it nine, because I'd like to milk this for all it's worth."  And he said "Three will be fine."  And I said "Six stitches, and that's my final offer."  And he laughed and gave me three.  

When he finished, he said "There you are.  You're all done."  And I said "I'm not leaving until you give me a few more stitches.  And, frankly, I don't think you're a doctor at all and I would like to see some credentials like a certificate or something because, for all I know, you could have just delivered some pizza."  And he laughed at me and left.  So I shouted after him "Give me a needle and some thread and I'll put the stitches in myself!"  But he ignored me.  And then the nurse said "You know, you shouldn't talk to the doctor like that.  He's had a long day and he's feeling stressed."  And I said "HE'S stressed!  How am I supposed to show my face in public with three piddling little stitches?"

But I think she felt my pain because she bandaged up my hand until I looked like Minnie Mouse and she said "There.  Is that dramatic enough for you?"  And I said "Yes.  God bless you.  You're a decent woman who knows the value of a good story."

The next day I met a neighbour who shall remain nameless, because I can't remember her name, and she asked "What happened to your hand?"  And I was thinking I wish I had put some dramatic music together so that I could play it as I launched into "Well, the orphanage next door was on fire..."