We're replacing part of the fence in our backyard. Phil and our next-door neighbor, Jerry, have been working together on this for a week or so. Last Friday, Jerry spent all day digging post holes. His wife wasn't too thrilled to have him using so much of his honey-do time, but so be it. Jerry was anxious to have it all done so Phil could set the posts on Saturday.
Saturday came and Phil started setting posts. He had two posts in, trying to get them exactly level and straight. The man is a perfectionist, so, in order to achieve fence post nirvana, Phil clamped his level to a third post and placed it horizontally across the tops of the other two posts. So far, so good. But one of the posts wasn't quite right, and Phil decided to bang it just a bit with his fist. Bad idea.
The horizontal post came crashing down on Phil's head. It hit hard enough that he nearly passed out. Instead, he lay down on the grass for a few minutes. The neighbor kids, who were playing right there at the time, saw the whole thing. The following conversation ensued:
Kids: "Are you okay?"
Phil: "Yes, I'm fine."
Kids: "Is it okay that I just told my mom what you did?"
Phil: "Uh, sure." (sits up at that point)
Kids: "Are you sure you're okay?"
Kids: "So...why is there blood going down your neck?"
Phil: "Blood? What blood?" (reaches his hand to the back of his neck) "Oh."
Phil came over to our other neighbor's house to find me. He asked if I could come help him with something, so I followed him back home. Then I noticed the blood.
Me: "Why is there blood on your neck? What did you do?"
Phil: "A post fell on my head."
Me: "Do you need me to check it before I help you?"
Phil: "Uh, yeah. That's what I need your help with."
We went inside, he removed his baseball hat, and the blood started dripping. I grabbed some rags to clean up what I could so I could inspect the wound. The cut was at least an inch long and a quarter inch deep. I told him this, too.
Me: "I think you need stitches, dear."
Phil: "Are you sure?"
He didn't believe me.
Instead, he put another rag under his hat so he could go outside and finish setting the fence posts. Not only that, he cleaned up his tools and ate some lunch. At that point, I figured he'd be ready to go get it checked and stitched up.
He called the InstaCare to see if he really needed stitches. They asked if the wound was gaping. In the background, I nodded furiously. He told them he didn't know for sure, since he couldn't see it himself. (Oh, brother.) He was more worried about wasting his post-setting time waiting in the lobby only to have someone tell him he didn't need stitches, but I finally got him to agree to at least have it checked.
Before heading out, Phil asked me to call my nurse friend to have her check it. Melody kindly came over with her rubber gloves and took a look. Her conclusion was the same: "You need stitches, Phil."
We got ready to go. Phil took time to wash his hair--because heaven forbid a doctor should see a guy with a head wound and dirty hair. Then he decided he was going by himself. He didn't want me to waste my time driving out there and sitting and waiting for him. (sigh) Fine.
He returned some time later sporting this:
Count 'em, folks. There are s-e-v-e-n staples. Yes, staples. Apparently, they don't do stitches in hair anymore because they don't work as well.
The doctor told him, "Yes, you definitely need stitches. It's nearly an inch and a quarter long and a quarter of an inch deep."
Wait. Isn't that what Melody told him?
Hold the phone...isn't that what I told him?
Monday, Jerry came home from work with a gift for Phil. It was even personalized.
Thanks, Jerry. It's perfect!