Scars. Lots of scars. Scars usually come with a story.  The stories are either harrowing, funny, or “man that was stupid but at least you have that cool scar to go with it”.  This story is the last of those three.

My most recent walk down the path of “that’ll leave a scar” was last Sunday when I decided that my monster rhubarb plant needed some thinning out once again and I’d already given a couple pounds to one of my Swedish friends (they love rhubarb in Sweden).  The fridge here at the homestead was already bulked up with a whole lot of black raspberries from our very productive patch and I had the brilliant idea to make some rhubarb-raspberry crumble. Mmm, dessert!  Delicious!

Now, I was chopping away on the cutting board, making neat little quarter-inch slices, moving my fingers out of the way like one should when they are using a hefty chef’s knife when time slowed just a bit as the knife came down to the board and into the rhubarb… and my pinky finger.  Feel free to cringe at this moment because even typing that out still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up just a bit.

So, I did what any self-respecting person does who is prone to injury.  I removed the knife from my finger and the rhubarb.  Said, “Oh, I cut myself,” and quickly followed that with, “that’s bleeding. That’s a bleeder.”  And then I applied a crap-load of pressure as I walked outside to where Mr. Muse was cleaning the pool and said, “Oh Nurse! I require your assistance.  I’ve cut myself and it’s a bleeder.”

He slowly turned and gave me “The Look” followed by asking in his resigned-yet-humored-but-not-going-to-panic way, “What did you do, Ray?”  He climbed out of the pool as I calmly explained that I didn’t know what happened. I thought my fingers were out of the way, and well… for the most part – they were.  I said that apparently I wasn’t paying attention as well as I should have and the knife came down and it stopped – possibly when it hit bone – but it didn’t go all the way through my finger and I was pretty certain I didn’t need stitches.

So as I hustled to the bathroom ahead of him, holding my finger above my head, applying so much pressure that my right hand cramped, and reassured him that I was sure I didn’t need stitches – it was just bleeding a lot.

Our first attempt at bandaging the finger failed from the “whole lotta blood” issue and so he made me sit on the couch, applying pressure for another hour (he turned on the TV for me). The blood finally slowed to a fraction of what it had been and we got a bandage around it along with a finger condom (aka “finger cot”) in case I sprung a leak. The wound was deep as far as pinky fingers go but not wide.

Of course, I took a photo and posted it to the world.  A friend from high school who has also been accident-prone as long as I’ve known him suggested super glue. How brilliant! We HAD super glue. And then, at the bandage change that night before bed, Mr. Muse and I looked like a couple of mad scientists in the bathroom with me squeezing the wound closed and him applying the glue with both of us blowing on it to dry it as I also worked at not passing out from the blood loss (I’m sure it wasn’t that much – blood draws take more) and the blowing.

I’m proud to say that nearly a week later – the wound looks pretty damn good.  The super glue also flaked off by now.  Plus, no more bleeding.  Now I just wait to see if I get a scar.

What’s your best “How’d you get that scar” story?