One late evening last December, just a couple weeks before giving birth to Ronin, Colby and I would be found having a silent argument in our kitchen. It consisted of him becoming increasingly irritated at the fact that I had avoided grocery shopping for approximately a month and was messing around on my computer instead of making dinner for him. (I had been filling my big, fat pregnant self with snacks constantly throughout the day, so I wasn't hungry.) His anger crescendoed with slamming cabinets, etcetera when everything he went for was either empty or had gone bad. Realizing he just might starve if I don't step in, I closed my laptop to throw some pasta together for him.
I don't recall handling the knife in an angry manner while trying to cut through the frozen sausage, but I could be mistaken. I just remember putting my weight into it while holding the handle in one hand and pushing down on the blade with the other when it slipped out of my greasy grip and off the counter. It felt like a blunt hit on the top of my bare foot, so I thought it was the handle that had hit, until I looked down and saw the white meatiness where a drip of blood formed and slowly began to drip down to my toes. Colby rushed to my rescue when hearing the obscenity of obscenities yelled from my mouth, which I don't even remember. He sat me down, cleaned it up and got me to the ER where we spent hours in the waiting room hungry and apologetic. I ended up chickening out of the stitches that the doctor suggested (ironic, I know, after three unmedicated births) and went home with steri-stitches -a bandage that unsuccessfully held the wound closed. On top of the reopening of the cut, I think I did some nerve damage too because I still have a numb area from the cut to my big toe.
The Cut:
The Culprit:
