My son and I are leaving our small town in southeastern United States to live for a year in a small town in southeastern France. It couldn't possibly be THAT different, right?

Thursday, March 22, 2012


    It seems appropriate that I was in the emergency room on my dad's birthday since we spent so much time visiting him in hospitals the last ten years of his life.  His problems were chronic and associated with his love of cigarettes, however, and my trip was due to clumsiness in the kitchen---something that would have never happened to my dad, who was such a good cook.
    Last night while making dinner, I tried to cut off the end of the middle finger on my right hand.  A lemon rolled away from me leaving my hand in its place on the chopping board, and I sliced a big chunk of finger.  It bled profusely while Jed ran around in a panic getting me paper towels and band-aids until he just couldn't help anymore because he thought that he was going to throw up from the sight of the blood.  We got the bleeding under control pretty quickly, but the finger throbbed all night.
    After getting dressed this morning, I noticed that my cut had popped open and was bleeding again.  I called my doctor who said that French doctors do not do sutures and that I would have to go to a clinic.  I dropped Jed off at school, and then Dominique led the way to the emergency room.  We were in and out of there in a little over an hour after one measly little stitch took care of the injury.  Dominique then took me to the pharmacy to get my pain medication and antibiotic ointment.  The total for an uninsured American?  89 euros at the ER and 16 euros at the pharmacy.  Dominique's help and friendship this year?  Priceless.      

No comments:

Post a Comment