DH
has been very busy lately. He’s sent five goats and two pigs off to
that great big buffet in the sky. (Or more accurately, the freezer.
But let’s not sugar-coat it—unless we’re talking bacon.)
He was wrapping
up Pig #2, tired, in a rush, and trying to beat the dark. That, my
friends, is the Holy Trinity of Bad Ideas. Anyone who’s ever tried
to “just
finish this up quick before dark”
on a farm knows full well that those are famous last words, usually
right before you’re duct taping your own limbs together
and calling it good enough.
I was in the barn, finishing up cleaning the chicken coop and
deworming goats. The recent mild January weather had thawed the
month-long litter in the coop. That’s farm speak for “everything
in there had frozen into a gelatinous nightmare, but at least it was
movable now.” I was just scooping out
the last layer of chicken lasagna when I heard a very distinct,
blood-curdling shriek.
“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Now, I’ve been married long enough to decipher the full
encyclopedia
of male grunts and yells. This wasn’t an “oops, dropped
the knife.” It wasn’t a “got squirted in the face with
the hose.” This was an “I may or may not still have all my
fingers” kind of scream.
I paused, waited… no thud. No crash. No farm dog howling like a
banshee. So, hey—he was still upright. Always a good sign.
Moments later, DH strolled into the barn looking like a character
from a low-budget slasher film. Finger wrapped in a bloody rag. Face
pale. Voice calm… too calm. “Hey hon, can you take a look at
this and tell me if I need stitches?”
Oh, I took a look, all right. He unwraped the rag, and there it
was: a wide, meaty gash right to the bone with blood spurting out
like he was auditioning for a low-budget remake of Kill Bill: Farm
Edition . I could practically
see
his retirement plan through it.
“Yup,” I said, in my best no-nonsense nurse voice.
“That’s gonna need stitches.” (And no, I didn’t take a
picture. You’re welcome. This is a family-friendly blog. Mostly.)
I slammed the last goat with dewormer, lobbed a bag of pine
shavings into the center of the coop for the chickens to handle, and
shouted for the grandson to help load the day’s final pork popsicle
into the truck. And off to the ER we went—with DH oozing blood and
pig juice in the passenger seat and me pretending I didn’t smell
what I smelled.
Now, here’s where the differences between men and women really
shine. Me? I would’ve showered. Changed clothes. Maybe fluffed the
hair and dabbed on some foundation so the ER staff wouldn’t call
Adult Protective Services. But not DH. Nope. He rolled into that ER
with his shirt covered in mystery meat, boots soaked in what I can
only assume was 70% pig juice, and bits of unidentifiable pork
product stuck to his ear.
I’m sure the triage nurse thought he’d just wandered out of a
true crime documentary.
And let’s be honest, even after he explained he’d cut
himself gutting a pig, at least three nurses were still silently
judging his boots. I saw the look.
The good news? He missed the tendon. Sharp knives, gotta love 'em,
make nice clean cuts, even if the owner of said knife was using it
like he was late for an appointment with the Grim Reaper.
Three stitches. One tetanus shot. Prescription for antibiotics.
And an official medical directive: Come back in ten days to have the
stitches removed.
Ten days? For that? Do people really go back to the
doctor for stitch removal?
Look, I could’ve handled this myself. I’ve stitched up sheep,
for crying out loud. Not like I'm Frontier Doctor Barbie or
anything. I'm more like Frontier Doctor Here, Bite This Stick.
I’ve got saline for rinsing the wound. I’ve got curved needles.
I’ve even got horse tail hair for stitches if we wanna get
old-school. (Before you ask, I would have sterilized them in alcohol
first.) Heck, I’ve got tetanus vaccine in the barn fridge—it’s
the CDT combo, so bonus! He’d also be protected against
enterotoxemia. (Goat and sheep people know what I’m talking about.
Non farm people? Google it and try not to gag.)
I’ve got long-acting penicillin, LA200, Nuflor, and syringes the
size of turkey basters. Sure, my needles might leave a welt big
enough to register its own ZIP code, but they’d get the job done.
And hey—his finger wasn’t drooping, so clearly no tendon damage.
That’s how I diagnose around here: “Is it hanging funny? No?
Then you're good.”
But did he let me take care of it myself? Nope. He chose the ER
co-pay and the shame of public pig funk.
We got home just before midnight. And the chickens? Bless their
feathered little hearts—they’d spread the pine shavings into a
perfect layer across the coop floor like a bunch of interior
decorators with beaks and OCD.
Such helpful girls. Probably would’ve stitched him up too, if
I’d handed them a needle and some thread.
So
in the end, DH got his stitches, I got another story, and the
chickens got credit for cleaning up the mess. Business as usual on a
farm where even the medical emergencies come with feathers and a side
of bacon.
DH’s
Version: Just a Flesh Wound
So, it was a normal day. You know—pigs to butcher, goats to
wrangle, blood to spill. The usual. I was wrapping up the last of the
pigs—nothing dramatic, just another day at freezer camp prep. I was
on autopilot, tired, cold, hungry, and trying to beat the clock
before we lost daylight. That’s when it happened.
Now look, I’ve handled knives for years. I respect
sharp blades. But let’s be honest—when you’ve spent the
whole day up to your elbows in pig innards, your grip isn’t exactly
at peak performance. That knife slipped faster than a politician at a
press conference and next thing I know—WHAM. My finger exploded.
Well… maybe not exploded. But there was definitely blood. A lot
of blood. Like, “should I be seeing stars?” level blood.
It was coming out like a busted faucet on full pressure. I did what
any rational man would do—I grabbed a rag, wrapped it tight, and
shouted a manly “AHHHHHHHHHHH” into the void.
(Side note: that scream was entirely controlled and
dignified. It was not a shriek. Ignore what my wife says.)
I walk into the barn, trying to act like my hand isn’t trying to
separate from my body. I ask her to “take a quick look,”
hoping for the ol’ “nah, you’ll be fine” response.
Instead, I get the look. The one that says, “You’re
not bleeding out in MY barn. Get in the truck.”
Now, here’s where I take issue. She says
she
could’ve stitched it. At home. With horse hair. And
livestock syringes that look like medieval harpoons. She offered me a
goat vaccine, for crying out loud. And she thinks I’m the
crazy one?
Anyway, we head to the hospital. I didn’t have time to change
clothes—I was kinda missing a piece of finger. And yeah, I might’ve
looked like I lost a fight with a meat grinder. But in my defense, I
won
that fight. The pig’s in the truck after all.
So I strolled into the ER looking like a walking crime scene, and
the nurse raised one eyebrow so high I swear it hit the ceiling tile.
I explained I was gutting a pig, and she kind of nodded… slowly…
like maybe she should alert security just in case.
Three stitches, one tetanus shot, and some pills later, I was good
as new. I'm sure she'll insist on taking them out herself, since she
clearly wanted to play Frontier Vet Surgeon.
Lessons learned:
Don’t rush pig butchering after 4 p.m.
Always keep a clean rag nearby.
Never bleed in front of your wife—she’ll blog about it.
