Blood on the Fridge: A Cautionary Tale

It was like something from a horror movie. There was blood everywhere. It splattered on the work-top, the floor, the fridge, me. It was gushing out of my hand, streaming down my wrist, collecting at my elbow and dripping onto my legs like some sort of mobile Jackson Pollack painting. Except I wasn’t very mobile at that moment. I was rooted to the ground, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the bright red blood pumping out of my hand at a frightening rate. It felt like hours, but in reality probably lasted for about three seconds. As soon as my brain caught up with my eyes and my nerve endings, the screaming started. Howls of pain and disbelieving shock. I could think of nothing but the gaping wound on my hand at that moment, but musing on it now I am surprised our neighbours didn’t come round to check we were alright. I sounded like I was being torn from limb to limb but heard not a peep from them. It’s good to know that if I am ever brutally attacked I can’t count on them to save me.


But back to the slasher movie: The Husband ran out to find me clutching my hand, eyes wide, rooted to the spot amidst a splattering of blood. “What have you done?” he cried. I tried to tell him but the wrong words tumbled out of my mouth. I tried again but a mish-mash of words came out, all in the wrong order. Defeated, I pointed to the knife lying on the work-top where I had thrown it, stained with warm blood. Quickly taking in the situation, he led me to the sink and turned on the tap, forcing my hand under the water. It hurt. And did nothing to stem the steady stream of blood gushing out of my hand. “There’s a lot of blood,” he said. Yes, I can see that, I felt like screaming, so now what? He grabbed my uninjured hand and placed it on the wrist of the slashed one. “Hold tightly and lift it above your head,” he ordered, as he disappeared into the bathroom. I screwed my eyes shut, not wanting to see my own blood anymore. With my vision gone, my other senses were heightened. I could feel my hand steadily throbbing as it pumped blood out of my body. I could smell the warm, wet scent of iron. I could hear a drip, drip, drip. Thinking that the tap hadn’t been turned off properly I opened my eyes momentarily and realised that the sound was not water dripping from the tap but blood dripping from my raised hand. The blood combined with the water in the sink to form a rusty coloured puddle that made me feel nauseous. I shut my eyes again.

The Husband seemed to take an age and all I kept thinking was that with every second he was gone, I was losing more and more blood. He eventually reappeared armed with antiseptic wipes, a huge wodge of toilet paper and a thick roll of bandages. By this point, there was so much blood it was hard to see the wound but I could tell from the grim look on The Husband’s face that it wasn’t good. He pressed the toilet paper to my hand and wrapped the bandage around it, pulling another bandage tightly around my wrist in an attempt to cut off the blood supply to my hand to allow it to clot. I sat meekly on the sofa, arm propped up above my head, the tears having abated, shock starting to set in. The Husband brought me his hoody as I began to shiver. I started to lose feeling in my hand and my fingers were turning blue. It freaked me out. “My hand is dying!” I cried. “No it’s not,” The Husband replied. “You’re killing my hand!” I insisted. Grim-faced, barely containing his irritation with his frightened patient, he unwrapped the bandage. The wound started to bleed again. “You’re going to have to go to hospital,” was his sombre analysis, “I think you need stitches.” “No,” I countered, furiously shaking my head, “no, no, no, no, no”. I didn’t want to spend my evening in a hospital waiting room but, more than that, we are off to the Ningaloo Reef tomorrow for a snorkelling holiday and stitches and water don’t really mix. I wasn’t about to shelve my dreams of swimming with whale sharks. “I won’t complain that my hand’s about to drop off,” I promised, “and I’ll stop wiggling my fingers just to check they still work. Wrap her up again!”

Half an hour later and the bleed had stopped. The Husband loosened the bandage slightly and I went to bed feeling very sorry for myself. A restless night followed and I was awake when The Husband got up. As I am normally comatose at this ungodly hour of the morning, I knew something had to change. I begged him to take the bandage off and felt better with each unwrapped layer. When all that remained was the plaster, I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt free again. The good news was that the wound hadn’t bled, the bad news was that my hand had a definite blue tinge. No wonder I couldn’t sleep. I was probably in self-preservation mode, my body ensuring that my hand didn’t fall off in the night. I am pleased to report that I think I’ll live. My hand is gradually regaining its colour and it seems to be working (I keep wiggling my fingers just to make sure). The horror movie is over. As if to remind me never to wield a knife towards my body again, I found a spot of blood on the fridge this morning, which is just what you want to see at 5.30am.

Lessons learnt? Knives are dangerous. Especially when they have been sharpened the night before without your knowledge. You can never rely on your neighbours to come to your aid in a potentially lethal situation. And your hand won’t drop off if you bandage it tightly. But it will hurt a lot.