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Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement
Spading Myself
Part four
When she saw that I was all right she asked if there was anything she could do. I asked if she wouldn't mind going to the house and cleaning up the blood on the floor. And the blood leading to the sink. And maybe the blood on the back porch. And the steps. She said she would without hesitating, and my wife was spared the sight of a bloody kitchen.
Dr. Wylie has no sympathy for my self-inflicted injuries since he usually has several at one time himself. He does rock-climbing and helicopter skiing, so we usually compare scars and stories, and I get little pity.
He went right to work, irrigating the three-inch long wound which ran just under my skin. The blade had bounced off the muscle and sinew in my hand and cruised nicely just beneath the skin to emerge at the top of my thumb. He washed it several times, but didn't sound too hopeful that we were getting all of the dirt out.
It was after all, a spading pitchfork which was often covered in dirt, and some of it had to stay under my skin. I didn't bother telling him that this particular area had once been used as a kennel by the previous owners. I guess I thought he would send me to the hospital, and I had a performance to get to.
I was right. It was six stitches on the top and three on the bottom, accompanied by a large dose of antibiotics (again). By this time I had started to feel some of the pain, but only took some ibuprofen so I wouldn't be dulled for the show that night.
He sent me on my merry way, and I made it to the call up at Sundance only about 30 minutes late. The transparent bandage on my hand wouldn't show on stage, and after showing my injuries to the cast and the directors, I was excused for being a little late. Stabbing yourself and getting nine stitches can get you excused for being slow, but don't try this at home.
To add insult to injury, I went to the vocal director and showed him my new scars. He wasn't too pleased with me being in the show anyway since I didn't have the strongest voice in the cast. I told him I didn't think I could sing that night, and he turned to me and actually said, "Could you please not sing?" I said yes, of course.
It wasn't my best opening night, but as I mouthed the words to the finale right next to audience members that night, they may have wondered why they couldn't hear this guy sing even when he was standing three feet away. I just looked at my hand and pretended to sing even louder.
When the choral director found out how lousy my voice really was, I was fired for the rest of the season. I was supposed to sing with Maureen McGovern and Christopher Lloyd in two later shows, but untrained singer that I am, I think they made the right choice. It did give me more time to get the backyard ready for the wedding. I spent the extra time stabbing at weeds with my perfectly intact spading pitchfork instead of feeling sorry for myself.
I wasn't out of the woods yet. The dirt and germs I had pulled back under my skin didn't all get flushed away, and I got an incredible infection from the wound. My arm from my elbow down began to turn black and blue, and when I showed it to the doctor two days later, he said it wasn't bruising but a raging infection.
He told me to keep taking the antibiotic pills I was taking and then went to the supply closet for a catheter. He hooked up this semi-permanent antibiotic delivery system and taped it right into the bend of my elbow. For those who have been paying attention, having needles close to me is worse than any horror flick you can name. He jabbed that giant needle into the skin and then taped it to my arm.
Getting a bag of antibiotics, he indicated we would have to do this twice a day for a few days until the infection was under control. Dr. Wylie isn't someone to mess around. When he sees a problem he deals with it right then, and doesn't take any hostages. The liquid ran into my system quickly, and then he took the bag away.
And left the needle in my arm.
As I sat staring at the needled delivery system, Dr. Wylie must have read my mind. He's heard me talk about my needle phobia enough. He said to me in his most patient and calming bedside manner, "Come back this afternoon and we'll give you some more. Let's leave the catheter in until we get this under control."
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