“I think he might bleed out!”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“It’s not looking good. This is by far the worst shaving gash I’ve ever seen!”
That was basically the scene on a recent evening when we joined friends for dinner at a downtown restaurant. Conversation for the first 40 minutes focused on the millimeter-wide cut that my husband inflicted on his lip while getting ready.
“It’s your fault, you know,” he’d pointed out in the car. “If you hadn’t slammed the door to the bathroom, I wouldn’t have been startled.”
“Of course,” I admitted freely. “It was all part of my diabolical plan to kill you slowly, drop by drop, over the course of the next forty years. You should take that tissue off. It’s going to stick.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
When we pulled up to the restaurant, he took the tissue off and—
“It won’t stop gushing!”
There was a single drop of blood on his lip. “You’ll be fine. We’ll put a cocktail napkin on it.”
While we waited for the other couple, he dabbed at the cut. “It’s on my lip, you know. I think that makes it worse. There’s just no skin there.”
Our friends, Jay and Julie, arrived and my husband brought them up-to-date on the current situation. “I’m going home to get a styptic pencil,” announced Jay, after inspecting the wound with the critical eye.
“Don’t you have one of those in your purse?” my husband asked me.
“No. I have a lip pencil,” I corrected him. I ignored the judgment on his face. In my defense, a pencil that ensures my lipstick stays put is far more valuable on a daily basis than one that might be needed for a once-in-lifetime shaving cut that won’t kill him. (Unless he falls into the Atlantic Ocean—about a 1,000 miles away—and a Great White shark, drawn by the scent of his blood, makes a beeline for him.)
As Jay departed on his humanitarian mission, it occurred to me that I received less attention when I gave birth.
To be fair, my husband did have a run of bad luck over the past week. He suffered two bug bites while puttering in the back yard. And, the day of the fateful shaving incident, he stubbed his toe on the cement. There was a bit of blood. Thankfully, it didn’t require stitches. Or a transfusion.
I convinced him to apply pressure to his lip to allow the wound to heal. (I say, “wound” in the loosest, most flexible interpretation of its definition possible.)
Then Jay arrived with his trusty styptic pencil and the blood flow stopped.
“Thank God! I was worried there for a minute,” I said to my relieved husband. “By the way, is your life insurance paid up?”
I confess: it’s fun to pick on a man’s melodramatic tendencies, but I’m far worse. When I’m sick, my husband is a saint. He’ll do anything to make me feel better. He’s awesome that way.
You know, I think I’ll stock up on styptic pencils.
Image © depositphotos.com/luckybusiness.