Play-Dough Injury

Most of the activities in which my young children participate are fairly innocent and don’t involve much risk of decapitation or other life-threatening injuries. Most of their activities do, however, involve some sort of mess. And it is those messes that bring a sense of danger into our otherwise safe home.

Of all the regularly occurring messes, the one I deal with the best is the Play-Dough mess. This mess is easy on me simply because we have banned it from inside the house and have set up a Play-Dough mess station in the backyard. My youngest daughter, who is almost two, is a certified Play-Dough fanatic. The other day she went outside to the Play-Dough mess station only to discover that she had left her stash uncovered the night before and it was all dried out. Without a moment’s hesitation, she toddled back into the house and tugged on mom’s pant leg before announcing, “Mommy! I need Pay-Dough.” Who could resist that? Moments later, mom was raiding the reserve Play-Dough stash and forking over a brand new doughy mess to our sweet little girl.

Play-Dough seems like an innocent enough activity to the casual observer, but don’t ever let the TSA find out that you have a pile of hot pink dough in your pocket. I learned this week that, given the right amount of sunlight, water, and grimy child hands, Play-Dough can indeed be used as a weapon.

How did I learn this, you ask? Well it all started just before dinner when I took my bare feet out in the yard to light the barbecue. As I stepped out on to the patio, I very astutely noticed that a sharp pain shot up my left leg when I applied my foot to the concrete. Quickly deducing that the pain was originating from the bottom of my foot, I eagerly lifted the offending foot from the ground only to discover a blue and pink swirled rock with a sharp, jagged point protruding from one side laying obnoxiously on the ground. “Rocks aren’t blue and pink,” I keenly said to myself. “This couldn’t possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon.” Then I leaned in for a closer examination. “Ah-ha!” I announced to no one in particular. “That’s not a rock, that’s a dried clump of Play-Dough!” Fortunately, my reflexes had been quick enough to avoid any serious damage to my foot, but a sharp pain lingered for several minutes before subsiding.

During those moments of lingering pain, I decided to see what the treatment might be for a Play-Dough injury. Using my best sleuthing skills, I flipped open my trusty laptop and typed the words “Play-Dough Injury” into my Google search engine. Expecting to receive feedback from several trustworthy medical sites, I was surprised when the only hits I got were for making edible Play-Dough and tips for removing Play-Dough from a cloth chair. Since my foot was neither edible nor cloth, I decided to accept the pain and wait it out.

As the pain worked its way out of my system, I couldn’t help but smile, for a realization had just hit me. Moments before, I had used the world-wide resources of the Internet (powered by Google) to research the topic of Play-Dough injuries. Not one report of any such injury could be found. I was the first. I alone am the only person to report a real life Play-Dough injury on the Internet. Even as I type this, I can’t wait to post it and see if Google can find my report. Perhaps my experience will help someone else who has dealt with such an injury. Who knows where this could lead. Support groups? Seminars? Book deals? The options are endless. So, if you have a Play-Dough injury story that you would like to share, (or if you are a Hollywood agent) let’s chat.

Mad as a Hornet

Have you ever thought your spouse was madder than a hornet? This type of anger is typically defined as red in the face with steam blowing out ones ears as choice words are spewed upon the recipient of this venom. When one is mad as a hornet, stinging verbal blows are administered repeatedly until the anger is exhausted. Apparently this phrase derives from a characteristic of actual hornets which have the ability, unlike common honey bees, to sting repeatedly without losing their stinger. By now I am sure you are wondering how I know this. Well, since you asked, let me tell you.

It had been a pleasant week of camping in the mountains of Northern California. There was plenty of sun and little to do except relax. Since I had time on my hands, I offered to accompany my fourteen year old cousin on a motorcycle ride through the mountainous logging roads. We rode to the top of the highest peak to overlook the lake and forest far below then traveled to an old abandoned mine to seek our fortune. After coming up empty, we headed home. The road home is simple to navigate, when there is a turn, take the road leading down. I knew this, but I was unsure if my cousin was aware of this simple navigational aide, so I made sure he was always clearly visible through the dust in my mirror. At the time I didn’t realize just how noble it was of me to lead the way, for lurking ahead was an unknown enemy and I would be the first to meet him.

As I entered the territory of this hornet, his anger turned to seething rage and he silently vowed to defend his land from the motorized monsters coming his way. Without warning, I crossed the invisible line marking his land and he attacked. His first attempt was aimed at my face so I ducked and dodged and brushed him away. Not one to give up easily, the hornet returned again only this time he had a better plan. The gap in my shirt right at the neck was my point of vulnerability. In one swift motion he found the hole and darted inside. Dust spewed across the road as I slammed on the breaks and tried to bring the bike to a stop fast enough to remove my helmet and pull my shirt off, but it was too late. His anger was in full force and he let me have it. Pain seared through my chest as he struck over and over relentlessly piercing my flesh with his pin-like tail. Pain like I had never before experienced consumed me. Fighting off the panic, I turned to my cousin as he emerged from the dust cloud and told him what had just happened. Then, recalling stories of trapped hikers and explorers who had overcome adversity to find safety, I knew I had to get back to camp as soon as possible.

Once again straddling the bike, I kicked it’s engine to life and took off down the dirt road. Did Austin know the way home? I couldn’t remember. A conversation with him flashed through my mind. Did I really tell him where to turn or did I only imagine it? The pain was intense, but I knew I had to show him the way home. My bike was faster than his and I could be home in minutes, but I had to wait, just to be sure. Glancing in my mirror, I could barely make out the headlight of the smaller bike through the dust. As long as there was dust, he would know where to go. Minutes later, with one hand clutching my burning chest, I made the final turn toward camp. Once we were safely on the last stretch of road, I gunned it, gripping my chest even tighter to try to ease the pain.

Like a good mom, mine knew instantly something was wrong. I pulled the bike into the camp, unintentionally popped the clutch, and stalled it as I climbed off as quickly as I could. “Are you okay?” she asked as I stumbled toward my parent’s motor home.

“No,” I replied stumbling onto the small sofa. And then, finally able to relax, I stopped fighting the pain and it consumed me. More intense than anything I ever experienced, I was sure my chest was a swollen mound of puffy red tissue. Tears were beginning to stream down my face and I felt as if I would pass out. My balance was gone and could do nothing but lie down and pray that the pain would stop.

Within minutes the spectacle had begun and word spread that Aaron was dying. Every campground doctor, nurse, and mom were putting their heads together to figure out what to do. I must have mumbled something about a bee sting, because my mom immediately slathered my chest with some kind of mushy white baking soda mixture. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

“On the sting!” I shouted back.

“Where is the sting? Can you point to it?” she continued.

“Can’t you see it?” I replied through clenched teeth.

“Maybe if you pointed out where the pain was, it would be easier,” she said.

“Wait, I think I see it,” my dad said. “Yup, that’s it.”

“Where?” asked mom.

“That little red line,” dad said pointing to a quarter inch scratch dead center. “Does this hurt?” he asked pressing on my gaping wound.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” I replied. Just about then, my uncle returned with a bottle of bee sting medicine. It was a green substance that is poured directly onto the sting. In a matter of seconds, my chest had a white background with a colorful green foreground tethered between mats of hair. Modern art at it’s finest existed upon my chest, but the pain was more intense than ever.

The decision to take me to the emergency room was quickly made. As I was stumbling toward the car, Mom handed me an ice pack. Ahh, relief. As we made our way to the small rural hospital seventeen miles down the road, the ice numbed my skin and the pain subsided. With my wife behind the wheel and Mom in the back seat, we pulled into the parking lot. “It feels a lot better,” I said. “Maybe we should just get some dinner and head back to camp.”

“Why don’t we wait here for a minute and see if it stays better,” my wife suggested? I removed the ice pack and walked around the uncrowded parking lot. Less than a minute into the trial period, the pain was back. “Is it worth a $100 co-pay?” my wife asked.

“Yes!” I said struggling to breathe. And in we went. Moments later I was sitting in a triage office lifting up my shirt for the nurse. I removed the ice pack and revealed the modern art plastered across my chest.

“What is that?” she asked. I did my best to explain the process that was involved in creating the masterpiece, but words failed me. “We are going to have to clean it,” she said.

Words came quickly this time. “If you clean that, I will probably hurt you,” I said.

“That’s okay,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with bigger guys than you before. Now tell me what it feels like.”

I thought for a minute and said, “It feels like intense heartburn, only not in my heart.”

“Heartburn’s not in your heart either. It’s in your esophagus,” she replied.

Great, and all this time I thought it was in my heart. “Spare me the anatomy lesson and make it stop!” I wanted to yell, but my energy for yelling was gone.

My next stop was an actual bed in the ER. Step one was a quick examination by a middle aged balding doctor who also struggled to find my gaping wound. “It feels like I am being stabbed with an ice pick!” I tried to explain to him. “Can’t you see it?” No reaction. The next step was a shot of morphine. “I need ice!” I said.

“The morphine will take care of the pain, honey,” the nurse said, “but I’ll get you some ice in a minute.” By now, my original ice pack was long gone and the pain was intensifying. After what seemed like hours, the nurse returned with a bag of ice.

“This ice is hot,” I said. “I need the cold kind.”

“It’s right out of the ice machine,” she said, “besides the morphine will help.”

The morphine was not helping. Only ice made any difference. “Can you please get me some real ice?” I asked again. “The morphine isn’t helping.” This concept seemed so foreign to the medical staff. “Morphine not working?” their faces seemed to say. “But we are a small hospital, morphine is all we know.”

Next came the phlebotomist. Another hole in my arm for blood tests. Fortunately, by now the real ice had arrived and the pain was subsiding. Minutes later, an EKG machine was wheeled into the room. “As long as you are not going to poke another hole in me, I guess you are okay,” I said to the kind-looking lady.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” she said as she began connecting electrodes all over my body. “Just a couple of more and then we can begin the test,” she added just before she placed the final electrode directly on top of my flaming wound.

“Ahhhhh!” I screamed as my horizontal body jumped vertically, almost reaching the florescent lights on the ceiling.

“You have to relax!” she ordered. “I can’t do the test if you don’t relax!” Once again fighting both tears and the urge to decapitate this heartless woman who had once looked so nice, I took a deep breath and tried to focus beyond the pain. “Relax,” she again ordered.

Dirty words and unkind thoughts flooded my mind as I struggled between unleashing them upon this woman and trying to actually relax so the test can conclude. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut and she finally got the information she needed. She quickly wound up her cords and began removing the electrodes from my body obviously anxious to leave this uncooperative patient behind. “I’ll just leave that one,” she said pointing to the offending element still planted on my wound. “You can take it off later.”

That was her first good idea of the night.

About and hour later, Doctor Baldy returned with the diagnosis. “So, what is it?” I asked.

“You got stung,” he said bluntly as he began filling out my discharge papers. “The morphine didn’t work so I can give you some pain pills, but my guess is that it will gradually go away.”

I took the bottle of pills and shook my head wondering what he actually did in med school. With a bag of ice (which was my idea in the first place) pressed firmly to my chest, I exited the hospital on a quest for my much delayed dinner. “Don’t keep that ice on there too long,” the nurse called out. “Or we may have to cut your frozen skin off.”

“Will that hurt?” I asked.