One of the problems with being a dementia carer is dealing with the introduction of a safety-feature that brings its own hazards to the party.
What the fuck are you doing, you safety-conscious dangerous gatecrasher? You are the reliable one, and you turn up sloshed on vodka? Go home, Safety, you are drunk. And not safe.
This shit is on my mind, obviously. I fixed myself up with a new tattoo today. It was easy. All I did was rip out some shelves then install a better arrangement.
Nailing was involved. Hammering, also. When you hammer a nail in and hit your own nail, you give yourself a cheap tattoo. We'll call it temporary.
I now have a Black Widow mark on my fingernail. It's deep purple. I don't bite.
That wasn't the bother. In the interest of safety, I upgraded the old oven gloves to new mitts. Fine. Safe. Better. Except for the cardboard sleeve the mitts were wrapped in.
The sleeve went for me. It bit. I hesitate to call this a paper-cut. Can you call it a card-cut? It was a fucking sword-slash. I almost swooned from loss of blood and a tendency to be over-dramatic.
Anywhere you like, sword-slash. Just not on the thumb, for fuck's sake. The worst part was feeling that, if I kept pushing, the card would slice the top off my thumb. I removed myself from the card as carefully as pain allowed.
Yes, you can overcome pain to deal with things in a calm manner. I'm not saying it's easy. With the slashed thumb on one hand and the Black Widow tattoo on the other, I'm running out of pain-free extremities.
All in the name of added safety. Fuck.
No comments:
Post a Comment