Cockeyed optimism

What a Friday I had last week! I had finished my cartoons for the week, and they were forecasting that a Nor'easter would blow in later in the day, so I decided to do a few errands before coming back home and getting ahead on next week's QlownTown. I loaded the rear half of my trailer with six plastic crates full of Christmas paraphernalia and four wheel-mounted summer tires for one of our cars, to be dropped off at the off-site storage area we're renting. The front half held the accumulated trash and recyclables from around Christmas and New Year's.

I tied down the Christmas crates and tires with a big bungee "net" and was securing the load on the front half when it happened. A bungee hook which I thought was firmly locked under the fender of the trailer popped loose, whapping me in the cheek. I immediately tasted blood, realized what had happened, and imagined the hook may have caught my cheek and ripped it open. I touched my cheek and saw blood all over my hand, which only added to my concern. Holding my cheek to stay the flow of blood, I ran upstairs to check things out in the mirror.

I confess here that I hit myself in the eye with a bungee years ago, which resulted in my having to stay indoors in the dark for two weeks with my pupils dilated. Fortunately, there was no lasting damage, and I had since assumed that I was therefore safe from bungee injuries, because what are the chances of anyone who's careful and seldom uses bungees being hit by one twice in a lifetime?  Now we know: in my case, 100 percent.

Trying not to panic, I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw a small split under the end of my mustache. The first sign of my cockeyed optimism appeared then: at least the scar wouldn't show very much, I thought. I felt around as much as I could without really hurting myself, and decided that the cut on the outside was separate from the one inside my mouth. Again, good news, I reasoned. Two shallow cuts seemed less disgusting than a puncture through the side of my face.

I called the doctor's office, and was told that for facial stitches, they preferred I go to the emergency room. Great, I thought. A higher co-pay than an office visit.

I waited at the emergency room for about a half hour to 45 minutes, I'd guess. I'd brought an ice pack, so there was no real swelling, and if I held it gingerly, the coolness provided more relief than the slight pressure of the pack caused pain. I was finally ushered in and informed by the doctor that indeed I would need three stitches on the outside--but none inside. She warned me that the Novocaine would burn, and I thought of telling her that my dentist told me years ago that the pain of a Novocaine shot is from the pressure of injecting it too quickly, and that in fact shots never hurt at my dentist's; but I figured, here's a woman who's about to sew up my face: do not do anything that might annoy her. So the shot burned, and it tasted terrible, but then my face went numb and everything was better.

She covered my face with towels, which short-circuited my plan to count dots in the ceiling tiles or read the posters on the walls to distract me from what was happening. There was still a lot to do that day, and I knew it would include dealing with bungee cords when I got home; but I decided to try to relax and try to use this as time to rest. She probed the site a little more and informed me that the hook had gone through the cheek, so I would need a stitch on the inside as well, but I had already been repulsed at that thought when it first happened, so the news that there was indeed a Hole in My Cheek wasn't a big deal. The inside stitch would dissolve on its own, so I didn't need to look forward to someone dragging a thread out of the sensitive inside of my cheek later. Again, a little more cockeyed optimism.

As it turned out, she didn't even trim my mustache. She used blue thread, so she can see what are whiskers and what are stitches when she removes them later this week, but they are pretty much hidden in my 'stache, so I don't need to recap the whole story for anyone unless I choose to. You can see from the length of this blog why I would be happy that I don't have to repeat the tale over and over.

As I left the hospital, I remembered that my sister-in-law Gaila had told me just a couple of weeks ago that if you pay directly, you may pay less than if you wait to be billed the standard co-pay by your insurance company. I turned around, went back in and asked about this, and was told that if I paid now, my co-pay would be $200, versus $250 as the standard co-pay. I charged it, which also gave me points on my credit card: a twenty-cent bonus, and another chance for optimism in the face (hee hee) of a lousy situation.

Walking out to my car, I thought how great it was that I saved $50 by asking. Then I thought, that's what a true cockeyed optimist would think. And then I laughed at what an optimist I am to be amused at how optimistic I was being.

Fortunately, there's been no swelling, and, as long as I remember to take a pain reliever regularly, no real pain. I haven't flossed for a few days--don't tell my dental hygienist!--but the only real inconvenience has been trying to remember not to get too close to the cut when I'm shaving.

And--ever the optimist--I did get an interesting story out of the whole fiasco.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about the trip to the transfer station and storage building. Oh yeah--the day's woes weren't over yet.