Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Meatball Surgery

It’s not often that you find yourself in a position where a half-drunk best friend is sewing stitches into your leg but that’s exactly where I found myself this weekend.

During the 2nd annual Celebration of Life Weekend---or more precisely, a 4-day bender that included some sailing---we stopped by the quaint Chestertown, Maryland. Mason, Rollin and I had motored the 10 miles up the Chester River to visit Mason’s college buddy, Dustin. Dustin was at his parents’ estate, situated right on the river, complete with views of sunsets, flowing green reeds, and the Route 213 drawbridge that we had just come under. Being a doctor, Dustin’s father has made quite a life for himself on that river.

As Saturday evening fell, we decided that the crabs we'd eaten had digested enough to go for a stroll through the pitch-black countryside. We headed out, drinks in hand, toward the cornfields and darkness of the outskirts of Chestertown. Finishing my drink, I stowed the tumbler glass in my pocket. As we approached the edge of the cornfield the conversations turned to movies like “Signs” and “The Blair Witch Project”. Feeling the need to behave like little boys, we played the game of who-can-scare-the-other-guy-the-most. As I lunged out from the edge of the cornfield to scare Rollin, I fell right on that damned bourbon glass which shattered in my pocket with the force of body hitting ground. As I stood up, I felt that unmistakable warm drip and trickle of blood down my leg and onto my bare feet. Lifting my pant leg exposed the biggest and deepest cut I’d ever seen on my body. We’re talking about 1 inch wide by half-an-inch deep, splayed open for all to see.

Not wanting to go to the emergency room and not having an insurance card on me, we decided that Dustin’s little sister should snag her dad’s doctor’s office keys and that Mason would sew me up there (Mason is a Physician’s Assistant, having spent the last few years stitching people up almost daily).

As we walked into the doctor’s office, cigarettes in hand, everyone set to work trying to find litocane (painkiller), rubber gloves, gauze and stitching. Meanwhile, I lay on the table in my black briefs, while the sticky blood was wiped off me. The first thing I then felt was Mason rubbing alcohol-soaked gauze through the bloody gash before he injected me with painkiller. In no time he set to the business of nervously sewing 5 stitches into the side of my leg.

Finishing up, we locked the office and walked a block to the nearest bar so as not to interrupt the flow of the evening.

My sincere thanks go out to all involved. You saved me a trip to the damned ER and gave me a story that I’m sure my wife is going to get very sick of hearing. Cheers!
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