Alcohol

Last night, Sarah and I ventured forth from the apartment in a quest for good Tex-Mex – the kind that was so prevalent in San Antonio. We found ourselves at a little hole-in-the-wall in Point Loma at 6:45 and by 7:10 we were quite full of quesadillas and burritos and 500mL of Mexican Coca-Cola. We were not ready to return to the apartment (and school work), so we headed over to Sunset Cliffs to watch the sunset over the Pacific.

Sarah and the sunset over the Pacific.

Since we had not initially planned on watching the sunset, neither of us was dressed appropriately; I did not bring a sweatshirt and Sarah’s flip-flops did not offer enough purchase for the short, sandy walk to the cliffs edge. A few steps into our descent down a gradual slope of maybe 30 feet, Sarah’s feet slid clean out from under her and she landed hard on her hands and butt. The ground did quite a number on her left hand, which soon began to bleed quite profusely. I offered for us to head home so we could treat her injury, but my wife, stubborn as ever, refused to leave before seeing the sunset. It was beautiful.

It really was a beautiful sunset.

By the time we left, Sarah’s hand was not looking so good.

Sarah's hand not looking too good.

The conversation during the drive home went a lot like this:

Sarah: “My hand hurts.”
Sean: “I know. I’m sorry you fell.”
Sarah: “It really hurts if I turn my wrist like this.”
Sean: “Don’t turn it like that.”
Sarah: “But it hurts.”
Sarah: “It’s getting all puss-y!”
Sean: “Eww. Don’t mess with it.”
Sarah: “I’m going to take a picture and send it to people!”
Sean: “Why?”
Sarah: “Cause it’s gross!”

By the time we got home, the dirt had had a good opportunity to get deep into Sarah’s still bleeding wound. To stave off infection, we needed to clean it with something more than just soap and water – all we had were alcohol swabs. Before we started, I asked Sarah if she had ever had a wound cleaned with alcohol, she said “maybe” but we soon found out the answer was “no.”

As long as I have known Sarah, she has never really felt the need to swear, but when that alcohol touched her wounded skin, it was as like the floodgates were opened. An absurd number of Damn’s and Damn-it-all-to-hell’s filled our bathroom. Sarah was in agony, and the worst part was, she made me clean the wound with alcohol two more times after that. Afterwards, we both felt bad: Sarah, because of her wound, and me, because I had to hurt my injured wife more to clean it.

If this experience has taught me one thing, it’s that we need to keep a first-aid kit in our car – that way the next time this happens, while my wife screams obscenities like an old-timey prospector, at least I’ll be able to watch the sunset.