Douché

I have a deep, dark secret.

I am a total, and utter, klutz. Well, okay, for those who know me, maaaaybeeeee that isn't such a big secret. I came into this world with a virtually cone-shaped head thanks to South African doctors' mis-use of forceps, in an age when the use of such medieval torture devices was all-but extinct, so I wasn't exactly deposited into this world with the greatest of beginnings, and I have continued on this course.

My friends have at times called me Wolverine, after the X Men character.  Not because I have cool adamantium claws or rock hard abs (I wish), but because I have an acerbic wit (okay, again I wish) and freakish healing abilities which allow me to recover from my frequent mishaps quickly (the healing abilities that is, not the acerbic wit.  That's just useful for making cutting remarks when people say something helpful like, "did you hurt yourself AGAIN?!") Medical professionals tell me I have unusually high levels of collagen which speed the healing process, but I think it's more a case of practise makes perfect. Since I first learned to walk, I have been falling over.

My best effort was probably knocking a large bowl of scalding water and tomatoes over myself as a three year old while my grandmother's back was turned for all of three seconds. My mother dumped me in the bath, poured cold water over me and pulled of my tee shirt, taking most of my skin with it.  But a mere few months later I was healed and virtually scar-free.  The childhood injury that took the longest to heal was actually a split head, and that only took so long because I split it open again when my baby sister bumped heads with me after it had just healed over.

I could fill a book with tales of my injuries; during my sojourn learning judo, I managed to rack up a spiral ankle fracture, a dislocated shoulder (no biggie, it popped right back in), a broken ear (yeah, you heard me), and a torn ACL which led to a knee reconstruction, and simultaneously ended my enthusiasm for the sport. During the course of my childhood there were the usual occasional scrapes and injuries, but I preferred to go for quality rather than quantity.  I repeatedly sprained my wrist while spending the bulk of my childhood on wheels of one form or another, took a lot of skin off my knees and hands on many occasions, managed to slice a finger clear to the bone once on a bread knife hidden in the dishwater (I suspect foul play) and once managed to give myself a fat lip on the day of my father's birthday when I was ten, which resulted in my having to sip the champagne that accompanied the meal through a straw. Oh, and I sat on a bee.

In school camps and during my teaching career I managed to frequently spectacularly injure myself, tearing the AC joint in my left shoulder in a freak flying fox accident, completely wrecking my back when a student assaulted me once and I twisted as I fell, as well as more of those run-of-the-mill scrapes (forcing a clumsy person to hike, climb or catch things in front of her students and expecting her to maintain her dignity is just mean, if you ask me).

One time, at a friend's housewarming, I was asked to cut up some cheese and other nibbles-type things for a platter.  The knife I was given was rather blunt, and I couldn't get it to cut through the packaging on the cheese.  Turns out it WAS sharp enough to slice through my finger when it slipped off the packet.  My friend's youngest brother was in cadets and luckily had his school bag with him, complete with first-aid kit, so we managed to find enough medical supplies to staunch the blood-flow and squish the tip of my finger back on.  By the end of the week it had managed to grow back together in a manner reminiscent of the T-1000 in Terminator 2.

I felt immortal.

Last year I managed to drop a pan while frying some meat, and somehow managed to splash myself with the boiling oil and marinade when it fell.  It burned a heart-shaped scar into my chest, and took all the skin off my chin.  I had to walk around school with a giant white dressing on my face for a week.  When they took it off, it was as though there had never been a burn there, and all the students were very suspicious of me, implying that I'd faked it.  Why on earth someone would Choose to wander around looking like that is beyond my comprehension.

I was reminded of all this a couple of days ago when I managed to massacre my thumb in the shower.  Said thumb is, I think, more than a little put out with me because it  was only a few weeks ago that I took a chunk out of the knuckle when I slipped while hacking ice out of a clogged freezer at the behest of my host while living in Paris. This had healed over nicely despite the general prevalence of filth and germs in that fair city, and was feeling rather smug about it.  I think the most noteworthy aspect of this particular incident is that I managed to cut myself in the shower, on a Bottle Of Conditioner. You know how it is, you get to the end of the supply but there's enough left in there to squeeze out a few more doses.  Like toothpaste, conditioner seems to drop to nearly empty very quickly, and then I try to make that last bit last As Long As Freaking Possible.

While I was squeezing out those last few drops of conditioner, the bottle slipped.  Hey, my hands were wet, okay? Totally understandable and Not At All Clumsy. Unfortunately, BECAUSE my hands were wet, the skin had softened enough that the lid of the tube managed to take a good-sized chunk out of the side of my thumb.  After the initial moment of painless, bloodless shock, my body recovered and starting pumping both blood and pain like freaky boat ride in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I wrapped my haemorrhaging finger in a face cloth (I have a white shower curtain - I didn't want it stained) and finished showering at lightning speed, feeling a little light-heated between the heat, humidity and blood loss.

A few bandaids later and I'd staunched the blood flow sufficiently.  Since then, I've been showering with a surgical glove on my hand to protect it, as any moisture hitting the wound is excruciatingly painful. I can't decide if this look is more Michael Jackson or Hannibal Lecter, but it certainly is a somewhat creepy experience to wash your face and hair with one normal and one rubber-gloved hand.

Two days later it's a sucking vortex of pain, but I'm confident my Wolverine abilities will kick in soon and it will either heal up, or I'll start to sprout muttonchops. Either works for me.