Deep wounds

Being the wife of a chef isn’t all fun and games. Sure I get excellent meals created for me at my beck and call. And sure I have learned so, so much about the intricacies of cooking. But the hours are long and the weekends are usually taken up with work and there are always fires to put out at the office so that even when hubby is off the clock, he’s not really.
One of the worst parts of being a chef’s wife is getting phone calls from work in which hubby is informing me of his newest kitchen injury. These could range from a hot oil burn that blisters half his arm to a back sprain from lifting heavy boxes in dry storage to a deep, bloody gash from a sharp knife. I’ve heard horror stories of cooks losing hands and fingers on crazy kitchen equipment, so I should consider myself lucky that last night’s phone call was only about a cut.
Hubby called yesterday afternoon to inform me that he was at the hospital. I breathed a deep breath and thought to myself, perhaps he had to drive an employee there. Aren’t I selfish!
That wasn’t the case. Hubby was filleting fish and for a split second stopped paying attention and his very sharp knife ended up in the fleshy palm of his hand. He said it barely hurt but that it wouldn’t stop bleeding, and then decided to drive himself to UNC Hospitals. Men are indeed brilliant creatures.
I met him there after an hour or more of waiting room splendor and he had already been moved to a private room to wait some more. The hand was still bleeding but he insisted he was in no pain. Eventually some nurses and a doctor tended to his wounds and treated him with a tetanus shot, some antibiotics, and two sutures. I’m not going to lie – this was pretty fun to watch. And hubby took it like a champ.
But please, please, please hubby be more careful at work.

Hubby about to get stitched up

Hubby with hand intact and grotesque blood stain on hospital bed beside him