So, it is a semi-regular thing with me where I say “you
know, I need to rant a bit, I should start a blog.”
Then I completely forget about it.
Then every now and again, Blogspot reminds me that I
have a blog, and that my 2 followers have not heard from me in a while. I go back, spend an hour trying to figure out
how to log in, and then entertain myself reading my past blogs, most of which I
don’t remember writing.
Then I completely forget about it.
Well, not this time!
I happened to have a weird confluence of a few free hours (sitting in
CLT the night before drill with limited internet capability), something I want
to talk about, and a reminder that I do, in fact, have a blog.
So… Product
Endorsement Time!
You know, the funny thing about head wounds is that they
bleed disproportionately to the actual injury.
You can give yourself a minor scrape on the scalp, and all of a sudden
your skull looks like grandma’s spaghetti pot is boiling over.
I was working in the walk in cooler the other day,
trying to convince this and that to join together into a single, useful
item. This went this way, that went that
way, and I pitched forward, lips first into the wall. Fortunately, I did not bust my lips, as my
skull was clever enough to make contact with the sharp edge of a gas
regulator. I felt my skull slice
open. Huh. Must be Tuesday. I bent over to pick up this and show it who
was boss when I crammed it on to that.
As I stood up, the left lens of my safety glasses filled up with blood.
Son
Of
A
Bitch.
Of
A
Bitch.
We got a gusher here boys!
Muttering dark thoughts (mostly) to myself, I wandered
back in to the main part of the brewery, heading to the bathroom to assess my
little boo boo. My head was hurting a little bit (I have a
special relationship with pain, and mostly ignore it), and I was not changing
the color of the ceiling, so I did not hit an artery, so it was mostly a
question of getting the blood to stop so I could finish my project. I walked around the corner of the brew
kettle, and the guys I was working with (let’s call them Guy 1 and Guy 2) got a
good look at me. Whoooo, son. Four eyes as wide as saucers. To be fair, at this point the left side of my
face, from the scalp to the chin was doing a wonderful Carrie impression as The
Little Hemorrhage That Could attempted to change the color of my shorts and
shoes to match the new and improved color of my shirt.
A few words about the different types of people and
how they react to things like randomly bleeding people. The first type is the stoic. Guy 1 was one of those. He just looked at me. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t pretend to
be some sort of tough guy, I just don’t see a point in freaking out when it won’t
do any good. If running around and
screaming would have made the pain go away, I would have been caroming off the
walls. If crying and caring on like a
little girl would have made the bleeding stop faster, grow me some pig tails,
and let’s get to work. No, the simple
fact was I had been stupid, and gotten dinged for it. Guy 1 noted that I was moving under my own
power, was alert, and did not seem worried about anything. He was satisfied. “Sup” I said, feeling the need to say
something. “Don’t get that shit on the
doorknobs” he said, feeling the need for the last word. See?
That’s fucking simple. No hysterics,
no drama. These are the guys you want to
have around you when the shit hits the rotor blades. Later on, he would check on me to ensure I
was fine, and say something to reassure me that he was concerned about my wellbeing. I
think his exact words were “you get that shit cleaned up?” You can’t buy concern like that at any price.
The second type is the healer. God love medics, be they military medics,
paramedics, or people that have been through enough shit that they got some
training and bought some gear. These are
the guys that glance at you, do a quick assessment, and disappear, only to
re-appear minutes later with what seems to be an entire surgical suite (minus
the machine that goes ‘ping’) crammed into an enormous aid bag that cost more
than a single family home. They PAID for
all this stuff, they are GOING to use it.
These suckers are pretty handy to have around. There was a guy working in the other room
that was like this. I no sooner got to
the bathroom than he set down 3 different first aid kits. Then, miracle of miracles, HE LEFT. No namby-pamby “sit still! I need to see this.” No lectures about keeping it clean or
pointless jabber designed to keep my heart rate down. Just, here’s some useful shit, peace. Perfect First Aid right there folks.
The third type was Guy 2. He didn’t exactly wig out, but he became
anxious and worried, so Guy 1 sent him to the drug store to get some peroxide
so he had something other than rivers of blood to think about. He followed instructions, calmed down, and
contributed. You can’t hope for more
than that from most people. No problem.
The fourth type is the type that just freaks the fuck
out and goes hysterical. Just shoot
those people at the first sign the wheels are coming off the bus. They’ll just be underfoot in an emergency and
probably manage to get worthwhile people killed or injured.
But, you might say, this was a product
endorsement? EXACTLY. This is a product endorsement the same way
Deadpool was a love story.
Guy 2 came back with some peroxide, which is unpleasant
when it runs into your eyes by the way.
He also brought back a septic powder called WoundSeal. This stuff is the bomb! It says right on the tube not to squeeze the
tube, just sort of let it pour out natural like.
Yeah.
Right.
Right.
I rinsed off all the blood with about half a bottle of
peroxide and squeezed the entire tube of powder down into the cut. I did not really have time to enjoy the
discomfort of half a quart of bloody peroxide displacing my ocular fluid before
I was distracted by a new and impressive sensation. WoundSeal don’t play. The bleeding stopped. I mean JUST STOPPED. Oh, it stung a bit.
A bit of reference is in order. I am very susceptible to poison ivy. I break out easily, and I spread easily. If I do not react quickly to an outbreak, I
will be at the hospital getting a shot within a day. A quarter sized spot will engulf half my body
within 48 hours if not treated. In the
paratroopers, I learned the fastest, no bullshit way to deal with poison
ivy. Take one of those green scrubbing
pads. Debride the entire effected area. I mean SCRUB THAT FUCKER. The most important thing is that ALL the
pustules are scratched open. If you don’t
get them all, the outbreak will linger and could re-contaminate. Suck it up, buttercup. Get it done thoroughly so it only has to be
done once. Once you have the entire
effected area roughed up, thoroughly drench it in chlorine bleach. Yeah, I get it, chemical burns are unpleasant,
but you should only need to do it once, and the poison ivy is GONE.
Back to the point of this whole
paragraph. You know those smiley-frowny
1-10 pain scale things they have in the doctor offices where they want you to
report your pain level? The way I
perceive pain, I rate the entire de-ivification process as about a 3.
Now, reading the previous paragraph, the WouldSeal
stung
a
bit.
a
bit.
But the bleeding STOPPED. On the box it says “creates an instant scab.” It sure as hell does. I walked around the rest of the day with my
shirt looking like I was a Freddy Kruger victim, and the (maybe should have not
used the entire tube) WoundSeal scab the size of a golf ball on my head.
Went home and took a shower, fully prepared to deal
with a fresh bleeder, but nope. The
seal-scab held and everything was good.
I STRONGLY recommend this product.
The next time you decide to head butt a sharp edge, grab a tube of this
stuff and get sealed up tight in record time.
