When I was about 5 years old, I was carrying a glass to the kitchen, when all of a sudden I slipped and fell, glass still in hand (literally). I got up immediately and my first thought was how much trouble I was going to be in because I just broke a glass. Of course that’s the most logical thought a person should have who just fell on top of glass, right? As I am looking at all the broken glass on the floor, I realize that a certian pile of glass is covered in blood. My attention finally shifts away from the broken glass and on to myself and I see that my jeans are also covered in blood but I see no cuts. Then, I finally see it..
I looked at my right hand I saw that I had literally no palm. I am now staring directly at the bones of my tiny little hand in a pool of blood and peices of that same stupid glass sticking out of them. I stare at my hand, or what was left of it, for a few seconds more trying to process what had just happened and realize that now is probably a good time for me to call my mom. Never the one to miss out on an opportunity to make a grand entrance, I then start crying and run to her with my hand behind my back. Naturally when I show her my hand she screams, starts crying also and calls the ambulance. When I arrived at the hospital and unwrapped my hand to show the doctor, he too had a similar reaction. A specialist had to be flown in to operate on my hand because Doc wasn’t really up to it.
A 9 hour reconstructive surgery, a two week stay in the hospital during Christmas, a cast from my armpits down to my waist, and a case of chicken pox later, my hand is perfectly fine and normal. I still don’t have much of a liking for glass cups though.