I caused a bit of mayhem on Twitter and Facebook last night, trying to figure out where the nearest ER was. I was chatting with my housemate’s dad while he was covering up the African Greys, the tame cockatoo perched on his shoulder. I’m not entirely sure of what happened next, except that one moment we were chatting, the next the cockatoo was clinging onto the front of my shirt, wings flapping, merrily munching on my left index finger.
Now, I’d had a less than stellar week up to then, but felt a little better after a visit to my shrink. I hadn’t eaten much for two days and sleep had been evading me too, so this tipped me over the emotional edge. I stuck the offended finger under running cold water; it just kept gushing vamp juice. I stumbled to the look, pack on wads of toilet paper and apply pressure. Finally it seemed to stop. Feeling slightly faint I collapsed onto my bed, trying to decide what plaster to stick on it. And then I turned my hand over. It bit right through the nail.
The shock/panic/hysteria took over and I decided I might need a little more than a plaster. Like a tetanus shot.
Of course this happens on a day I’m wearing stiletto boots and jeans keep falling down my ass. I drive (sobbing all the way) to a garage around the corner, and after eventually enquiring about the nearest hospital, I’m on my bloody way to Sandton Medi-Clinic, hyperventilating as I go.
Long story short: The finger is bandaged. My medical aid’s savings is exhausted and I owe them a bucket load of money for three x-rays, having my wound cleaned and dressed, a little pilletjie to help me calm down, and the tet shot. Prescribed pain meds and antibiotics – which I still haven’t got – and sent back home (where I cry some more).
If I can make it to Pretoria tomorrow afternoon without any more distress or injury of any kind, I will be very grateful.