Being a PWD, I wish I could say I was cursing like a Brit. Alas, it's an actual bloody foot. Cue the panic:
I was in the kitchen last night and felt something under my bare foot. Assuming it was a small piece of dried cat food - realistic, as the slobby gatos are forever getting their food all over the place - I just kind of wiped my foot to the side to dislodge it. And felt a sharp stab of pain. A bad sharp stabbing that instantly set my heart aflutter.
A small shard of glass had magically appeared in the middle of my kitchen floor from some alternate evil universe...and damned if it didn't puncture the bottom of my foot. I hobbled to the bathroom with blood running down my sole, mopped up, slapped on some hydrogen peroxide, checked to see if there were any remaining chunks stuck in the new hole in my foot, and then popped a band-aid on it.
That sounds like a calm, rational reaction but the reality was far from that. I've been well-trained by endos and CDEs over the years, and so I do not take foot wounds lightly. And by that I mean I kind of spaz out, flapping my arms around, thinking "My foot! My foot! I cut my foot! OMIGOD I CUT MY FOOT!!! BLOOOOOOOOOD!!!"
Nothing is red or pus-filled today, so I'm going to just hope I got it cleaned out and everything's hunky-dory. Um. Well, and more than likely take deep breaths to stay calm, obsessively check the bottom of my foot, probably buy another vat of hydrogen peroxide, and routinely ask B look at it to make sure he doesn't see any red streaks either. Our little sojourn to Pittsburgh should make this all a lot more fun for everyone, but my timing sucks in most things.
And for the record, the wonder Band-Aid? The one that's stuck to the sole of my foot since this morning, through a flip-flopping commute to Manhattan on the Q train? Well that would be the Rite-Aid brand clear dots - the very same I use on my belly to cover infusion set holes.