“We are in the hands of the universal energy for the first nine months of our lives. Why then when we are born do we think we can go it alone? – Cynthia Breadner
OUCH!?
Well not really ‘ouch’, more like that teeth-clenching moment, you know it, when your brain needs a nanosecond to catch up to the experience of what just happened to your body. That blink of an eye, split second of time when you say, “Oh no, that’s gonna hurt!” yet the actual pain has not yet registered on the Richter scale of severity. As I stood over the sink where sudsy water resided soaking and covering a sink full of dirty dishes, I looked down at my hands. I had been daydreaming and in my left hand was a large, and quite sharp, butcher knife and in my right hand was a blue dishcloth covered in blood.
My love of washing dishes was stalled in this moment of awareness because I had been lulled, as usual, in the action of washing dishes. My thoughts drifting aimlessly, like they do, when I was abruptly brought back to the physical task at hand. My dreaming and pondering rudely interrupted by a realization that as I had been sliding the thin blue washcloth up the blade of the knife, my Peter-pointer finger, with a mind of its own, on its very own exploration journey, had decided to travel around the blade far enough to live on the edge! Exploring, testing the limits of its fear, dancing with danger, and it lost. In this split second of journeying into unknown both of mind and of action, it happened. I cut my finger and there was blood, everywhere!
Rich, red, iron-infused blood draining from the cut into the dishwater, dripping from my finger onto the white sudsy bubbles. At that moment I thought, “Oh no, I bet this is gonna hurt!” and waited gingerly for the sensation of injury to travel from the finger to the brain, and register. As I looked at the blood, in shock and awe, the pain registered, and I was then no longer disjointed or fragmented. The knife, with its sharp edge, was dropped into the water and I quickly turned on the cold-water tap.
Time to act now, I thought. I grabbed a napkin from the shelf and as I prepared to add pressure to the bleeding finger, I assessed the cut to see if I was going to need stitches. This was important because living alone, a trip to the hospital is not just a shout away! Nor is a fall-down-on-the-floor-and-have-my-family-trip-over-my-body opportunity going to surface. No one is going to come bounding into the kitchen yelling “Where are my clean underwear?” or “What’s for lunch?” only to find me in a puddle of my own blood. If help is needed, I must act before I pass out if that is the case! However, as I looked and looked and looked the cut was hard to find, so the conclusion was no stitches, just blood!
I wrapped it firmly with a thick paper towel cushion and held it to my chest, holding the finger in my fist to keep pressure, and headed to the bathroom where I keep the bandages. Thinking to myself, “Oh dear, is this why I paused at the shelf holding bandages the other day at the drug store? Will the cupboard be bare like Ol’ Mudder Hubbard?” (Kids, ask Gramma for the Ol’ Mudder Hubbard story). I headed into the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and there on the shelf was a box of bandages and upon inspection, there was one bandage left. One chance to get this right. To save me from bleeding to death right here before my very eyes. Well, it would not be before my eyes because I likely would pass out before I would actually die, so would not see it. But, one chance to save my children and my children’s children from the horrific sight of Gramma on the floor and having them wonder if I got run over by a reindeer.
I took the bandage out carefully and opened the tiny little package with my left hand and the pinky fingers of my right. I bared its soul laying it exposed, sticky side up, on the counter, and reached for the alcohol to pour over it. Just think of this, I cut myself in dirty dishwater! I could hear Lucy now … “Eww germs..” (in her case dog germs, but germs nonetheless) “get the iodine!” I did not have iodine I only had alcohol. So, I carefully removed the packing and poured the alcohol over the cut. It had all but disappeared and yet was still bleeding so I wrapped it again and applied pressure. I then quickly got the bandage, my one and only, the single, necessary, one and only bandage in my house, removed the packing again, and quickly wrapped up the cut. I stood and watched, and it seemed to work. There was no bleeding though the bandage. I had done it. Averted disaster of epic proportions and saved myself. Dr. Cynthia is on call for self-medication and care. My shingle was hung in my imagination with pride.
I had doctored my finger using the tools and equipment I had on hand. The bleeding was contained, and the finger bandaged, and I was okay, all fixed! I went back to the kitchen, put a glove on my right hand to protect my one bandage, and finished the dishes. My doctoring worked and now it was up to the healing gods to complete the task.
A couple of days later, I removed the bandage and looked at my finger and all was well. The cut had sealed up nicely and seemed to be healing. I was careful not to move the delicate skin flap as my body had closed the wound. My body was busy healing itself, caring for this cut, all the warriors doing their job, mending, and fixing my finger. The body is designed to heal itself, that is the way we are made. In the womb for nine whole months, we are created and built miraculously and then one day we are born and for some reason, we think we can go it alone. Something grows our fingernails and something else keeps our heart beating and we are designed to put one foot in front of the other in order to walk or run. We are biologically a machine that is built to care for itself, heal itself, and manage the complex system that we are. If one is to stop and truly think about it very carefully it might just boggle the mind. While I assisted in stopping the bleeding, the escape of precious blood necessary to survive I did not heal myself from the outside. The body did that from the inside, physically using all the tools we have inside. When a scab forms, there was no installer, except the body’s own ability to heal.
If we tear off the scab the body will make another and another and continue to attempt to heal the wound. If we choose to keep opening up the wound and not allow healing, the infection can set in and the body may give up, eventually being overcome. As I let my finger heal and watch the beauty of healing, I let it heal. I let the cut close, and I knowingly understand the body takes care of itself. Whether it is an emotional wound or a physical one, healing takes time, and it takes us to let it scab over and heal. What wounds are you keeping open and infecting by not choosing to let them heal? Where are you rushing your grieving in order to skip the time it takes to scab over and complete the healing process? When that butcher knife jumps out and cuts you what bandages do you have in your cabinet and do you have some stock, so like me you are not left with only one chance to get it right?
Let go and allow healing to happen. Crawl metaphorically back into the womb and toss up your healing to the mystery that is the body creator. See what happens when you partner with, and trust, your body to heal itself in every way it can.
Cynthia Breadner is a grief specialist and bereavement counsellor, a soul care worker and offers specialized care in Spiritually Integrated Psychotherapy with special attention as a cognitive behavioral therapy practitioner and trauma incident resolution facilitator. She volunteers at hospice, works as a LTC chaplain and is a death doula, assisting with end-of-life care for client and family. She is the mother part of the #DanCynAdventures duo and practices fitness, health and wellness. She is available remotely by safe and secure video connections, if you have any questions contact her today! [email protected] breakingstibah.com
