Playing With Fire
So, last evening I somehow came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to start my hand on fire. After a 10 or 12 second episode with my left extremity engulfed in flame, I was left with a rapidly blistering hand, as well as equally rapidly increasing pain. As I stood in my bathroom watching the flesh on my hand turn white and curl, I could only think one thought: I belong in an emergency room.But I didn't go. Seeing clearly the damage that I had done, I resisted what I knew was the correct course of action. I instead looked for another way to deal with the problem. I made a phone call to my ex-wife, an RN. She of course told me to go immediately to an emergency room. I responded by getting in my car and driving directly to Walgreens, on the hunt for some sort of magical burn cream that would allow me to bypass what was needed. As I paced the aisles of the pharmacy, I spotted an older, grandmotherly fellow shopper. She, I decided, would direct me to the magical product I sought. I approached my silver-haired saviour, thrust my damaged digits in her face, and asked her what I should do.
"Go to a goddamned emergency room."
Not the response I was looking for. I explained to her that I would prefer to treat this myself, and she walked me over to the first aid section, where we selected a product. As I walked away from her, she advised me once again that what I needed was an emergency room. Once home, I applied the miracle cure to my wounds. What had previously been a 7 on the 1 to 10 pain scale immediately shot up to a 46, and I washed the crap off, now almost crying from the pain. I paced my house, holding my wounded paw, considering my options. Called the ex again and told her what had happened. She once again advised me that I was a moron who needed to be in an emergency room. I got off the phone, unsatisfied with her answer. Now I really put some thought into it. Then it came to me. I have to go to the emergency room.
As I drove myself to the nearest E.R., hand sticking out the window to cool in the frigid night air, I was sure it was now too late. Even though I had finally come to my senses, I knew I had done permanent damage to myself, and even the best efforts of the doctors would not be enough. I registered and took a seat in the waiting room next to a woman who had a javelin sticking out of her hear or something. Finally, they called my name, and I was seen by a doctor.
In remarkably short order, they had managed my pain, treated my burns and dressed the wounds.
Today, as I reflect on the events of last night, there are messages that jump out at me.
1) Don't play with fire - - - You really WILL get burned.
2) My refusal to do what needed to be done had resulted in unneccessary pain, but as soon as I committed to the needed course of action, the problem was solved. Sometimes we see what we need to do, and for reasons that only make sense to ourselves, we resist. I have to correct this in all areas of my life, and not wait until it could be too late to repair the damage done. Go with the gut. Do what needs to be done.
3) I can be a complete dumbass.
XOXO
Gull
Posted by mgull on 11/12 at 09:16 PM
But you gotta admit, it does sound kind of like one big allegory!
-S