Daniel cracked his head on the corner of a cabinet. He now has a staple in his head - like Frankenstein.
The adrenaline rush you get when your husband calls and says, "You need to come home, like now. I hit my head and need to go to the hospital," is pretty wicked. I drove all the way home from work sitting straight up, my knuckles turning white from my hands gripping the steering wheel.
I got home to Daniel clutching one of my blue dish towels to his head, said towel is now in the biohazard garbage bin at the hospital. He had dried blood on his head (obviously), and also on his hand, his eyebrow, eyelid, and nose. I get queasy at the sight of blood - so I had to steady myself a little bit.
Of course, he tells me it doesn't really hurt, but we need to go to the hospital because it bled a lot. After waiting FOREVER, he finally got seen by a doctor who told us that he once poked a similar wound and a fountain of blood squirted at him. I almost threw up on him.
Finally, Daniel got one staple put in, and the sound of staples going into a head is enough to put you off your lunch. Luckily, I didn't see it, 'cause if I had, I think the medics would've had to fetch the smelling salts. (Do they still use smelling salts?)
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