Tripping on the Trail and a Trip to the ER

“Have you ever had stitches before?” Pat asked me this morning as I sat in the ER waiting for Mike, the friendly Physician’s Assistant, to come back with needles, sutures, gauze, scissors and whatever else he was going to need to address the large, gaping laceration on my left thigh.

I had to think about it.

“Uh…I don’t think so,” I replied, surprised at my good fortune to live an adventurous, physically active life well into my middle adulthood without needing any body parts stitched up.

My fortune ran out this morning, though, when Pat, Sparky and I were trail running and I tripped and fell. That in itself was hardly surprising because I have tripped, stumbled, stubbed my toe, lost my balance and embarrassed myself a hundred times on this trail, my favorite place to run. But this morning, I must have hit and slid across a rock because when I stood up and brushed myself off, I gasped when I saw the deep, V-shaped laceration on my upper left thigh.

You can thank me for not going into details, because I’m only going to say it was gruesome, shocking, and not for the faint of heart.

“Pat! Come back!” I screamed, hoping he wasn’t too far ahead on the trail to hear me.

I kept yelling, realizing that no one else was around and if he didn’t hear me, I would be waiting quite a while for him to recognize I was missing and possibly run back to try to find me. Luckily, I have a big mouth and halfway down the hill, he heard me screaming.

Because my husband is a loving, caring, wonderful man, I’m going to forgive his admission that when he heard me yell, he first worried that something might have happened to Sparky, our beloved, geriatric, canine running partner.

I’m happy to say that Sparky was okay.

I’m also happy to say that after spending the morning in the ER, I’m okay, too, thanks to the kind professionals at St. Clair Hospital. No broken bones, ligaments or other significant damage.

“The most stitches I ever did before was forty-five,” P.A. Mike said, as he prepared to inject my leg with an anesthetic. “You’re going to be pretty close.”

After he stitched me up, I hobbled past the triage nurses at the ER reception desk where, a few hours earlier, they had seen me in a much more appalling state. They looked at me with concern.

“How many?” one nurse asked.

“Thirty-two,” I said.

“Wow!” she responded.

So thirty-two stitches later, I’m home and resting with my leg elevated.

Please don’t worry. Sparky and I are fine.