Some things for catching up
At ten o'clock on Sunday night I got a text message from a former student: "Everybody wear church clothes tomorrow out of respect for president Hinckley." On Monday, more than two-thirds of the student body was spit-shined and spiffy. And nobody said a word about why.
I think I know now why it is always Jax who cleans me up when I'm hurt: she doesn't let anyone else near. I reached into my steel Betty Boop lunch box to get my lovely, sharp, Cutco paring knife to prepare my apple for eating and sharing, and for some unknown reason I picked it up by the blade instead of the handle. Didn't release it cleanly, either. Slid it out of the finger. Gush of red. Clamped a paper towel over it fast. For all my clumsiness, I have fast reflexes. Kris vanBrunt brought some ice, and as soon as my stomach settled I went on a quest for Super Glue. Consensus was that I needed stitches. It's my left hand, my guitar hand. Have you ever seen what stitches do to a finger? The size and depth of the scar? I found some glue in the auto shop, in the possession of a student who generously gave me the whole tube. Jax and I tried to get some on, but it was bleeding too badly. We bandaged it tightly and gaff-taped some ice over it. I elevated it during the next class, and finally got some glue on it after school, when it was totally numb. One corner was still a little weepy and made a little red Super Glue structure. The bleeding stopped completely, though. Today it's hard to believe that everyone was recommending stitches on Thursday.
Dad has been making some huge progress as a human being. Case in point: he had a tooth extraction Monday, and I didn't have to clean up any blood at all. I did have to change the gauze pad, but he took care of the old one, and threw the new one away when he was done with it. I am shocked. He usually spreads his misery as far as he can. He said the other day that he thought maybe he was hanging around for him as much as for his girls.
There is something else I have been composing to write here for several days, but now I can't remember now what it was. Shoot. Don't know when I'm going to get a chance to write again. Love you all, and miss you. See you after the silly season.
I think I know now why it is always Jax who cleans me up when I'm hurt: she doesn't let anyone else near. I reached into my steel Betty Boop lunch box to get my lovely, sharp, Cutco paring knife to prepare my apple for eating and sharing, and for some unknown reason I picked it up by the blade instead of the handle. Didn't release it cleanly, either. Slid it out of the finger. Gush of red. Clamped a paper towel over it fast. For all my clumsiness, I have fast reflexes. Kris vanBrunt brought some ice, and as soon as my stomach settled I went on a quest for Super Glue. Consensus was that I needed stitches. It's my left hand, my guitar hand. Have you ever seen what stitches do to a finger? The size and depth of the scar? I found some glue in the auto shop, in the possession of a student who generously gave me the whole tube. Jax and I tried to get some on, but it was bleeding too badly. We bandaged it tightly and gaff-taped some ice over it. I elevated it during the next class, and finally got some glue on it after school, when it was totally numb. One corner was still a little weepy and made a little red Super Glue structure. The bleeding stopped completely, though. Today it's hard to believe that everyone was recommending stitches on Thursday.
Dad has been making some huge progress as a human being. Case in point: he had a tooth extraction Monday, and I didn't have to clean up any blood at all. I did have to change the gauze pad, but he took care of the old one, and threw the new one away when he was done with it. I am shocked. He usually spreads his misery as far as he can. He said the other day that he thought maybe he was hanging around for him as much as for his girls.
There is something else I have been composing to write here for several days, but now I can't remember now what it was. Shoot. Don't know when I'm going to get a chance to write again. Love you all, and miss you. See you after the silly season.