It’s Thursday night.
I am exhausted. Lingering cold and post-conference fatigue. But I am taking Brady to his agility class because it makes me as damn happy as it makes him.
He’s excited the second I pull out the leash. He’s been cooped up all day. It’s understandable.
I am in the midst of clipping on his leash when, in his excitement, he pops up and cracks me on the underside of the chin with his head.
He headbutted me.
And I bite through my tongue.
It bled a lot. Not gushing but plenty. It only gushes when I stick my tongue out really far but when do I stick my tongue out really far? I get it under control enough to take Brady to his class. Probably because I was in a bit of shock. Also because, damnit, that was the plan and I didn’t want to deviate from the plan.
I swing by my mom and dad’s house on the way home to show my mother my injury and she was like “uh, sorry, but we’re going to urgent care.”
I’m 34 and my mom took me to urgent care.
Where, I might add, I am the star of the night. There were approximately 12 people staffing the urgent care clinic and I saw them all. Seriously. (It was a slow night.)
I got my tongue stitched. Twice, because the first stitches didn’t hold. The doctor called me “one tough lady,” a compliment that I am still relishing in because, in actuality, I am not very tough. I’ll maintain that the injury really wasn’t that horribly painful (I went to dog class, after all) and neither was the stitching, but I’ll still take the compliment.
Now, almost four days later, I have had my stitches removed (thanks, ma!) but my tongue is still swollen and feels weird and/or maybe a little numb and I chew to one side. I’m still on antibiotics and my arm is still sore from the tetanus shot but this isn’t so bad.
Plus my tongue still looks bad enough that I can get away with not wearing a Halloween costume. I stick my tongue out and it’s plenty scary.
There’s something to be said for timeliness.