I had dropped out of college (and life in general as most of you know it) for a couple of quarters. But I still lived in a dorm and used the university's labs and computers. A couple of friends and I had found ways into various buildings to use terminals that were sitting idle nights and weekends. We programmed, learned, played games and chatted. I learned as much about software on my own as I did in some of my classes.
One of the EE building's glass doors was never locked properly. The bolt at the top would engage, but not fully, and the bottom bolt wouldn't engage at all. A good hard yank would flex the door and it would open.
It was a comfortable, if gray, Sunday afternoon about four o'clock. The only person around was a little, old lady walking her dog. I yanked on the door. It flexed as usual... but didn't open. I yanked again. No dice.
"Miles, maybe you shouldn't..."
"No problem." I yanked a lot harder. The door flexed. The glass got angry. "You won't like me when I'm angry."
The glass shattered. It was right. I didn't like it angry.
A large piece of glass, about 3/8" thick and more than a foot square was falling straight toward my left foot. My arm spazzed and ran interference. The glass deflected, leaving a ragged, two and a half inch gash in my arm. It (the glass) shattered gloriously and beautifully in the dull light, showering my bare toes with shards. Somehow they remained unscathed. But bright red drops fell from my arm.
As silence followed in the wake of the glass explosions, an old woman's voice shrieked a sing song, up and down pattern. "You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!"
"Yes, ma'am, I know." I held out my bleeding arm. "We're going to the doctor, OK?"
"You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!" Her small, beautifully coiffed poodle began barking a furious counterpoint. It was a rather nice polyrhythm but I wasn't properly appreciative at the time.
I shrugged and we began the two or three block trek toward the infirmary, me trying to stop the bleeding, one friend helpfully reminding me they told me not to yank on the door, another talking about the crazy old lady, the third joining in her refrain (possibly quoting the dog as well, but I don't recall). As we turned the corner a block away, the woman was still rooted to her spot, stuck in an infinite loop. Thankfully the sound fading with distance and obstacles.
While I had my old, student ID, I didn't have a currently stamped fee card for some reason I'm sure was unrelated to the fact I wasn't actually in school that quarter. At the infirmary the nurse at the desk explained that they couldn't help me without that card. But another nurse overrode her and let me see the doctor.
He had a lovely, cultured, London accent; he was "doing an across the pond residency exchange". I got two stitches, a roll of gauze, and a pressure bandage. He didn't press for details; I got the impression from things he said he might have some escapades in his past. In any event, he told me to come back after 10 days (or something like that) so he could check the stitches.
I was meticulous about cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic. I went through plenty of gauze and wrapped my arm in the pressure bandage to keep the seam immobile. It healed up nicely. When I went back, only the nurse who'd been overridden was on duty. She refused (properly, which I recognized even then) to let me see the doctor. But the same doctor was on duty, and he overheard. He called from the other room.
"What seems to be the problem?"
"It's the boy who cut his arm. He still doesn't have his fee card. I told him he has to produce one or leave."
"Oh, quite right! We can't have that. But it's too bad, because I'd love to have seen how it healed. But he needs to go to [the local charity hospital]. Or if it looks really good, I'd have told him he could always just take the sutures out himself. If I could see him. But of course, without a fee card, I can't."
I thanked the (somewhat irritated) nurse, said I understood she was just doing her job, and left. As I walked past a window, the doctor waved and smiled.
Back at the dorm, we pooled our resources. We had no hemostats. The only sharp knife we could find was my Bowie knife-- a bit large and unwieldy for the task. We had no scissors. We had needle nose pliers. We had fingernail clippers.
Since the wound was on my forearm, I couldn't wield both pliers and the clippers. My friends, it turned out, were a bit too squeamish to help. If you've ever looked at properly done sutures (these were beautiful) they're small and tight. There's not a lot to work with, and they're snug against the skin. At the same time, they do flex when you push against them... including down into the skin.
It took a half hour, working one handed with only a pair of nail clippers, but I finally got those sutures out! Without tearing the nicely knit skin. Without any new cuts. A little alcohol, a little antibiotic, a little gauze and a pressure bandage, and I was home free. Thank you, British doctor!
...
Fast forward to this evening. My wife had six sutures in her arm. (Her cuts did not involved breaking and entering. She exercised her constitutional right to have a highly trained doctor slice her open and sew her up.)
This time we had tweezers and small, sharp scissors. Only a couple of the sutures offered any real resistance, and I had them all out in well under ten minutes.
I'm still not a pro; I don't get paid for suture removal. (I did get a kiss, but I get those even when I'm not pulling unnatural substances from her epidermis). I'm not even ready for Synchronized Suture Removal at the Olympic games in two weeks. But I do feel all medical and stuff. And I am pretty sure if you need thread cut and pulled from your epidermis that I can accept payment in small quantities of chocolate without triggering a "tax event".
So, for all your suture removal needs, contact me. For the right endorsements-- or sponsorship to the Olympics-- I'll even waive the chocolate.
