My Face Hurts
It shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anybody, or at least to anybody who read my last hockey entry, that I sustained a slap shot to the face during our hockey game last Wednesday night. Despite this accident, I still maintain that playing in a men's league without a mask is a fairly safe thing to do. Our team only had 8 skaters for the game, so my failure to dodge the puck can easily be explained by on-ice fatigue.
If not fatigue, I can at least blame my teamate, Mario...the guy who took a head-high slapshot from the blue line with players in front of the net. That kind of behavior would have made any of my former hockey coaches screech profanities at his simple-minded defensemen...and rightly so.
The puck hit me as I was skating into the crease to screen the goalie. I barely had a moment to torque my head away from the black blur as I saw it approaching. I remember hearing a deadened "thwack" sound as my mouth absorbed the blow. It sounded like Rocky hitting frozen slabs of meat.
The velocity turned my head towards the net and all of my senses went cloudy. I maintained my balance and tried to make sense out of my muted hearing, blurred vision, and the numbness affecting my entire face. I think the ref whistled the play dead as I aimlessly drifted toward our bench. I touched my face gingerly, trying to determine where I was hit and how hard, and saw blood sticking to my fingers. My entire face was numb. There was no way to tell how extensive the damage was. Someone said, "Holy shit! Are you OK?" as I skated by, but I wasn't really sure how to answer. I wasn't in pain, I felt OK. Both eyeballs seemed to be in place...just kind of numb.
I poked my fingers past my lips and ran them over my teeth. Remarkably, all of them were in place and unaffected. My spirits were momentarily raised until I appraoched my fellow team mates...who looked at me with panic and fear, apparently alarmed that I was still standing. I calmly asked for a towel. They had nothing, and neither did the league manager who was working the scoreboard, "I can get you a first aid kit in between periods," he offered cheerfully.
My brain wasn't functioning at full capacity. I was confused. Without any sense of how serious my injury was, and no materials to fix it, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Briefly, I considered taking off my jersey and using it to stop the bleeding. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the plexiglass in front of the penalty boxes. Blood was streaming down my mouth and neck. "Fuck," I thought, "I'm going to have to clean this up off ice."
In our locker room I got some paper towels wet and started cleaning up the coagulated blood to see what I was working with. There was a deep gash right next to my lip. It cleaned up well and looked decent after applying a little pressure. There was a thin, clean line that seemed to close up. "Hey, no big deal," I said to myself in the mirror, "This just might heal itself." I smiled and watched as the gaping cut reopened deep into my cheek as my facial muscles altered my expression. Blood started pouring from the wound once again. Fuck, I'm going to need stitches.
I made my way to the lobby where I found a first aid kit, applied an alcohol pad, and fastened a couple of butterfly bandages to try to keep the cut closed. We fought back to tie the game at 4:4 in the 3rd, but our substitute goalie hit the wall and let a quick 3 of 4 easy shots pass him by. It was a frustrating way to end the evening.
As I left the locker room a team mate consoled me with a reminder, "You were never that attractive anyway."
"Fuck that," I thought, "I'm sexy as a motherfucker. But where the hell am I going to find a plastic surgeon to fix this beautiful face...at midnight...on a Wednesday"
I went home and took a shower, smoked a joint, thought better of having a beer, and decided to embrace a manly new scar by having it stitched up at a common hospital emergency room.
At Advocate-Good Shepherd, (1:00am) it took 2.5 hours to get stitches. The local anesthesia that the doctor was injecting me with didn't seem to do much of anything, so the bastard poked me about 50-60 times in the face while he manipulated and played with the flaps of my torn skin.
Me: "Aahh!!"
Doctor: "Sorry, that spot shouldn't have been numb...I was just testing you."
Me: "Great."
When he had finished putting in the six stiches, I demanded a mirror. The doctor looked on and smiled at his terrifying work before sending in a hospital representative to sort out my insurance.
The stitches come out tomorrow, but I'm not reserving much hope. I've given up on being a beautiful creature of God. My appearance is of no matter any more...nothing really matters any more. My disfigured self will soon learn how it is that all of you ugly fuckers live out your tormented day-to-day lives.
::shudders::
six stitches
removed
It shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anybody, or at least to anybody who read my last hockey entry, that I sustained a slap shot to the face during our hockey game last Wednesday night. Despite this accident, I still maintain that playing in a men's league without a mask is a fairly safe thing to do. Our team only had 8 skaters for the game, so my failure to dodge the puck can easily be explained by on-ice fatigue.
If not fatigue, I can at least blame my teamate, Mario...the guy who took a head-high slapshot from the blue line with players in front of the net. That kind of behavior would have made any of my former hockey coaches screech profanities at his simple-minded defensemen...and rightly so.
The puck hit me as I was skating into the crease to screen the goalie. I barely had a moment to torque my head away from the black blur as I saw it approaching. I remember hearing a deadened "thwack" sound as my mouth absorbed the blow. It sounded like Rocky hitting frozen slabs of meat.
The velocity turned my head towards the net and all of my senses went cloudy. I maintained my balance and tried to make sense out of my muted hearing, blurred vision, and the numbness affecting my entire face. I think the ref whistled the play dead as I aimlessly drifted toward our bench. I touched my face gingerly, trying to determine where I was hit and how hard, and saw blood sticking to my fingers. My entire face was numb. There was no way to tell how extensive the damage was. Someone said, "Holy shit! Are you OK?" as I skated by, but I wasn't really sure how to answer. I wasn't in pain, I felt OK. Both eyeballs seemed to be in place...just kind of numb.
I poked my fingers past my lips and ran them over my teeth. Remarkably, all of them were in place and unaffected. My spirits were momentarily raised until I appraoched my fellow team mates...who looked at me with panic and fear, apparently alarmed that I was still standing. I calmly asked for a towel. They had nothing, and neither did the league manager who was working the scoreboard, "I can get you a first aid kit in between periods," he offered cheerfully.
My brain wasn't functioning at full capacity. I was confused. Without any sense of how serious my injury was, and no materials to fix it, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Briefly, I considered taking off my jersey and using it to stop the bleeding. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the plexiglass in front of the penalty boxes. Blood was streaming down my mouth and neck. "Fuck," I thought, "I'm going to have to clean this up off ice."
In our locker room I got some paper towels wet and started cleaning up the coagulated blood to see what I was working with. There was a deep gash right next to my lip. It cleaned up well and looked decent after applying a little pressure. There was a thin, clean line that seemed to close up. "Hey, no big deal," I said to myself in the mirror, "This just might heal itself." I smiled and watched as the gaping cut reopened deep into my cheek as my facial muscles altered my expression. Blood started pouring from the wound once again. Fuck, I'm going to need stitches.
I made my way to the lobby where I found a first aid kit, applied an alcohol pad, and fastened a couple of butterfly bandages to try to keep the cut closed. We fought back to tie the game at 4:4 in the 3rd, but our substitute goalie hit the wall and let a quick 3 of 4 easy shots pass him by. It was a frustrating way to end the evening.
As I left the locker room a team mate consoled me with a reminder, "You were never that attractive anyway."
"Fuck that," I thought, "I'm sexy as a motherfucker. But where the hell am I going to find a plastic surgeon to fix this beautiful face...at midnight...on a Wednesday"
I went home and took a shower, smoked a joint, thought better of having a beer, and decided to embrace a manly new scar by having it stitched up at a common hospital emergency room.
At Advocate-Good Shepherd, (1:00am) it took 2.5 hours to get stitches. The local anesthesia that the doctor was injecting me with didn't seem to do much of anything, so the bastard poked me about 50-60 times in the face while he manipulated and played with the flaps of my torn skin.
Me: "Aahh!!"
Doctor: "Sorry, that spot shouldn't have been numb...I was just testing you."
Me: "Great."
When he had finished putting in the six stiches, I demanded a mirror. The doctor looked on and smiled at his terrifying work before sending in a hospital representative to sort out my insurance.
The stitches come out tomorrow, but I'm not reserving much hope. I've given up on being a beautiful creature of God. My appearance is of no matter any more...nothing really matters any more. My disfigured self will soon learn how it is that all of you ugly fuckers live out your tormented day-to-day lives.
::shudders::
six stitches
removed
posted by The Youngest at 11:54 AM
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