Triage

Ma Smash: Have you changed the bandage yet?

Me: Not yet. I was sort of thinking, maybe I could leave it til it’s time for the stitches to come out. You know: Like a cast.

Ma Smash: No.

Me: Well, overnight then. Just so I don’t disturb it.

Ma Smash: You need to clean it.

Me: But that will hurt.

Ma Smash: It’ll be fine. Why don’t you take the dressing off right now, while I’m on the phone with you.

Me: I can’t! I’m doing dishes.

Ma Smash: You’re doing dishes?

Me: I got gloves. Madcat suggested it.

Ma Smash: Clever girl! Cuz I was gonna say, that’ll hurt more than cleaning the wound, doing dishes.

Me: It does kinda hurt.

Ma Smash: Is it bleeding?

Me: Um … no?

Ma Smash: Is it bleeding?

Me: Yes.

Ma Smash: Why don’t you take the bandage off right now?

Me: OK.

[By the sink: A long process of unrolling, punctuated by dramatic sniffles and little hitches of breath, as though I’m unveiling my stump for the first time.]

Me: Oh, hey! It looks pretty good.

Ma Smash: See?

Me: Is that pus? No, it’s just the edge of the wound. And the ointment crap they put on it.

Ma Smash: You’re fine. Now wash that right off with plenty of antibacterial soap and put on more ointment.

Me: OK. Hey! It looks really good!

Ma Smash: Told you.

Me: Neat!

Ma Smash: Do you want to talk to your father?

Me: Sure!

[Hands phone to my Dad. This involves waking up my Dad, who has been snoring peacefully in the background.]

Me: Hi, Daddy!

Dad: Hi, Peaches. How’s your paw?

Me: Pretty good. Mom just had me take off the dressing while we were on the phone.

Dad: [Pause.] So she could … see?