In Which Death Snubbed Me For the Oscars

I almost died on Sunday.

It was Oscar Night and instead of partaking in Hollywood’s grand parade of self-congratulatory bullshit (fucking Pacific Standard Time), I was being a good mother and “making” my son dinner.

The husband?  Off on the wings of business.  Or so my private investigator tells me.

The pizza was ordered but I was dutifully preparing some healthy accessories.  And that was when the plum attacked me.  In the blink of an eye, that juicy little bastard turned my weapon against me.

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BAM!  SLICE!  SQUIRT!  AGONY!

a long, low, guttural moan… I must not alert toddler to the life-and-death situation!

time comes to a stop and yet…the adrenaline is flowing!  I must act quickly!  I must not go softly into that good night!

I stagger to the sink and throw my hand under cold water.

Oh!  The Pain!  The Pain!  Think back!  I. Must. Think. Back!  Did I see bone?  I totally saw bone.  I’m sure of it!  Was my pinkie hanging by a thread?  A THREAD OF CARTILAGE?

Quick.  Turn the water off.  Grab paper towels.  Hundreds of them.

I slide down the sink in a heap of self-pity and fear and hundreds of paper towels.

I know for a fact that I have 127 Hours before I will have to sever my own pinkie finger.

But most likely I will die.

On the off-chance I might not die, I think about what the Emergency Preparedness Class that I never took would have taught me:

• Summon every ounce of True Grit.  Find an eye patch.
• Confirm that The Kid Is Alright, that he is happily engaged in a Toy Story (or 3).
• Find a tourniquet.  A band-aid will suffice.

But how to get this band-aid?  It’s upstairs!  And I’m bleeding to death!

And then suddenly I’m possessed with the strength of ten Ryan Seacrests on a Red-Carpet-&-Red-Bull high.

I am standing.

I am a Fighter.

Screw that.  I’m no fighter.  I am the Black Swan.

Or is it  the Dying Swan?  Lunging and swaying and reeling – a pirouette – watch the couch! – a battement jete - ow! my toe! – until the medicine drawer is in my grasp.

But who’s by my side?  Ah, the Chalupa!  Tending to his mother’s final moments – and he has his doctor’s kit!

“Chalupa,” I gasp, “open the box of bandaids and grab one for Mommy!”

While I wrap Winter’s Bone over and over, the Chalupa takes my blood pressure and listens to my heart.

The prognosis is bleak.

Hark – is that my phone?  Yes, I forgot about The Social Network.  My followers must know of my demise.

I try to tweet but it’s SO, SO hard with nine fingers.  Blood covers the screen.  I get as far as Dear Tweeps.

I lie on the bathroom floor, thinking, “People should know about the danger of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons!  Discounted Henckels that slice off at the knuckles is no discount at all.”

Feeling cold – probably rigor mortis setting in, I decide it would be best if I expired on the couch downstairs.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

Chalupa:  YEA!  VALLEY!

“I will fear no evil:  for thou art with me (I hug my child); thy rod and thy staff they comfort me – SONOFABISCUIT!”

The Chalupa found his hockey stick.

I stumble to the couch, like a battered hockey puck.

Huddled in a fetal position, I glanced down at my finger.

Could it be?  Had the bleeding stopped?  I no longer felt a dull throbbing!

Movement – check.  Sensation – check.

Relief floods through me!  For the first time since the Inception of this event, I feel a surge of energy as I shake the malignant specter of death.  No!  It wasn’t my time!  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this sweet world!  Rallied by the healing power of….a hockey stick?…I stand on wobbly feet!

Screw The King’s Speech, it’s time for the Queen’s!

Voice lifted towards the heaven, I speak, “Like Eve in the garden – it was not an apple but a plum!  And when felled by the sword of –

ding-dong!

Oh.

The pizza guy.

But when I opened the door, he gave me a knowing look.

A look that said:  You were robbed, lady.

Even the pepperonis were in the distinct shape of a statuette.