I am NOT a doctor

Cari woke me up this morning. She had been out sanding the deck and preparing to seal it.
As I partially opened one eye to see what she needed, she told me that she had a pretty bad splinter. She had been working on getting it out and needed my help.

I sat up and went into the kitchen. This place had been transformed into a makeshift operating room. In the O.R., was two sewing needles and a razor blade. I rubbed my eyes a bit, still waking up, and I said, "let me see what you got."

WOAH! This girl had a toothpick jammed into her finger, and the joint, and DEEP. Seriously, this splinter was the diameter of a toothpick, and about a third in length of one.
She told me to help her cut it out.

I love her very much. "I'm not cutting you.", I explained.
I told her that I would love to help her, but I am not going to be the reason she would lose the ability to move her fingers. The girl must have been desperate to ask me. I left the room as she continued to cut her finger open. I don't tend to handle things like that very well.

About twenty minutes later, Cari comes into the room. "I GOT IT!!"
You would think she just bought five more pairs of shoes. (that's a topic for a different blog entry. She has TWO feet, but buys shoes for. . . oh, nevermind).

I got up to see this piece of wood. It was a big chunk of lumber, and had planted itself deep in her finger.

What a trooper she is. She didn't even shed a tear. If it were I, the screams would have you believe I was having an arm amputated. I also would never have been able to cut it out myself.
My splinter would have been treated with some wound cleaner and a band-aid. Five years later, I would still be treating the infection.