The Olive Can Incident

For those of you who know me fairly well, you know that there are just some things I cannot handle - blood, injuries, any kind of gross medical talk, and needles to name a few. My aversion to these things has caused me some interesting - and embarrassing - situations in my life. And for some reason, I'm sharing these with all of you. (Even though I should really be grading a million essays.)


I was probably about 15 and had arrived home from school or some other activity. I was hungry - for some reason I hadn't eaten all day. Off I went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I believe I was making Haystackes (basically taco salad), and of course, with Haystackes, I must have black olives - it's the law. I opened a new can. Somehow in the process I sliced the back of my hand on the lid. At the first drop of blood, the world began to rock a little and those awful, familiar, yellow dots threatened to take over my vision. 


My father, who was the only parent home at the time, comes around the corner to find his daughter inexplicably plopped down on the kitchen floor, sitting in an awkward Indian-style, head hanging, holding the injured hand. 


"What happened?" 


"I cut my hand on the olive can. It's bleeding." 


"Uh oh, we better have a look at look that and get it cleaned up. Let's go into the bathroom." 


So I pull myself off the kitchen floor and drag myself into the bathroom where I sit on the edge of the toilet using the cabinet to prop me up while holding my hand over the sink for dad to assess and bandage my gaping, gushing wound. 


And then it happens. Things go black, the blood drains from my head, and I slump over the sink. 


Then I hear something. A familiar sound. Is it? Yes, it is. Laughter! My father is laughing at me! Doesn't he care about the gash in my hand that will surely need 3 or 4 stitches?! How could he be so insensitive? So cruel? 


He must of smeared some antibiotic ointment on it and perhaps slapped a band-aid over it too. I don't remember. I do remember somehow getting up from the toilet lid and mumbling, "I think I need to lie down..". 


It's a good thing my bedroom was only a few feet from the bathroom. 


Next thing I know, I'm hurtling face-first towards my bed - inches away from the frame, but thankfully landing on the mattress. I have fainted a second time. 

Dad has tears rolling down his checks. Not out of concern - oh no - but uncontrollable laughter. Seriously. What kind of parent shows so little concern for the well-being of their child? Ah, the shameful neglect I suffered.


Oh, I did forget to mention one little detail. It's not important really. It shouldn't change your opinion of the story in the least bit. I'm told - though I swear I can still see a scar - that my gaping wound... was...well... the size of a paper cut. 


Stay tuned for The Mexican Airport Fiasco and Blood Bank: A Love Connection.