Blame it on the Turks. Blame it on the Turks, and their fascinating ability to stuff things into things, and those things into cans. Delicious things. Into other, equally tasty things. Into dangerous, predatory cans. What the hell am I talking about? Well, allow me to digress. Or regress, as I haven’t started into my story yet.
I take you back to an average night lo some several weeks ago. I had been working all day at home, typing, researching, outfitting my fingers with a full set of wolverine claws-slash-multi-coloured paperclips, when I got to thinking, “hey little lady - you deserve a night on the town.” A look through the film listings produced a much buzzed-about documentary. “Yes,” I thought, “what a perfect way to start the evening. A feature-length exposé on a genius, anti-social shut-in who somehow escaped notice until a desperate twenty-something needed a quirky subject for his fourth year film project.”
But maudit-merde-caribou! The film was starting in 30 minutes, and I had yet to eat dinner. I needed something good. Something fast. Something un-ten-dollar-movie-popcorn-ish. So, I did what every reclusive genius does (who hasn’t shopped for groceries in a fortnight,) and went to my kitchen cupboard. The magical cupboard of “why-did-I-buy-that-oh-yeah-it-was-on-clearance-oh-wait-let-me-first-check-the-expiry-date.” Mmm-mmm. Luckily, my two-weeks ago self was on fire in the aisles, because hallelujah! A perfectly well-dated can of dolmas. Full of rice! And mint! And “courgettes” (which, let’s be honest, sounds far more enticing than your garden-variety zucchini)! These particular dolmas were, as I knew from a past encounter, each topped with the most beguiling little red cap, like a yarmulke made out of the tail-end of a tomato. Except tomatoes (or yarmulkes) didn’t make an appearance on the label. Oh well-no matter! Oily courgettes crammed with rice and topped with a red mystery ingredient would give me the perfect amount of strength to sit still for two hours.
I tucked my finger under the can’s pull-tab, and yanked. I yanked with all my might. I yanked, and I yanked, and I - yes, you know me too well - yanked some more. But still, my little dolmas remained stubbornly entombed. “OK,” I reckoned, “one more yank should do it. Otherwise, it’s wholemeal rusks dipped in Marmite for me.”
“YAAAAAAAR!” I bellowed, summoning the power of Greyskull. “Pwop-tch!” replied the can, with the acquiescence of stubborn colon, finally giving way.
“YAAAAAARRR…FUCKFUCKFUCKFUUUUUUUUUCK!”
Oh, my good Goddamn.
The thin, tin, razor-edged top had sliced deep into my thumb.
DOOOOOOLLMAAAS! How could you?! I trusted you!!! With my heart, my hunger, and yes, even the supple, yielding flesh of my digits (with which I was planning to eat you!)
I vigorously shook my hand to diffuse the pain. Blood sprayed everywhere. It splattered on the oven. It streaked over the fridge. It dripped down the once peerless ecru of my walls.
My kitchen looked like a murder scene. It looked like a slasher film. It looked like Carrie had come, experienced her menses, and left.
Shocked and awed (and now pretty sure I wouldn’t make it to the cinema on time,) I wrapped my thumb up in a roll’s worth of paper towel. I stumbled over to the phone, dialed 8-1-1, and prayed for a calm, reassuring voice. Turned out I could take my time petitioning the divine, as Quebec’s healthcare hotline put me on hold for a full twenty-five minutes.
“VEUILLEZ APPUYER UN POUR L’ANGLAIS.”
Fine. Great-anything to make this go faster. I appuyer-ed.
“Euh oui, bonjour. Quel est ton probleme?”
“Oh, hi! Hello! OK, well, you see, I cut through my finger, er, my thumb, actually.”
“Is most of the thumb still there, Madame?”
“Oh! Yes, yes, yes. I haven’t cut it straight off. Just, uh, through it.”
“Can you see bone, Madame?”
“I can’t see anything at all. I’ve got it swaddled tighter than a day-old baby.”
“S’ecuse moi? Un bébé?”
“No - sorry. Not a baby. I’ve wrapped the thumb in paper towel, so I can’t see the injury.”
“Ah, OK. I see. Well Madame, I don’t want you undoing your towels - you need to keep those on to, uh, make the blood hard.”
???
“Um, yes. I see. Well, actually, I was phoning you to ask about tetanus.”
“Tennis? Non, non, Madame. You should not do tennis tonight…”
“No, no - TET-TA-NUS.”
“Quoi? TEH-TAAA…aahh, OK. TIT-ta-nouuuuse. Bon. Continue.”
“Well, the thing is, I haven’t gotten a booster shot since I was nine.”
“Ah no. This is very bad. Mais, attend - how many years do you have?”
“Many more than nine.”
“I see.”
“So I was wondering if I should be worried. Should I be?”
“With what did you cut your thumb?”
“A can. Of dolmas.”
“Doh..doh-mais? Dommage?”
“No, DOH-LE-M…oh, it doesn’t matter. I cut my thumb open on an imported tin can.”
“Import? D’ou?”
“From Turkey, I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh, tsk, tsk. Non, non, non - they don’t have the same standards.”
“For tin cans?”
“For everything. OK, bon - you need Tit-ta-nouse. And maybe also des points.”
“Also wha’? But wait - can I get my booster now, and be protected against the disease?”
“Uh, I think so. Attend un minute…”
I could hear the rapid-fire clickity-clack of computer keys. Maybe “tit-ta-nouse” doesn’t come up very often. But the woman on the other end was supposed to be a nurse - don’t nurses routinely deal with flesh wounds? For Christ’s sake, I could’ve looked this up on the internet myself, had I not wanted to smear gore all over my Macbook Pro.
“OK. It say here you got four days.”
“Four days for what?”
“Four days to get shot.”
“But what if things start going south before I, er, get shot? What are the symptoms?”
“Oh no, Madame. You should get tit-ta-nouse.”
“Yes, OK, all right. I promise to get it. But just in case I lose consciousness tonight because all the blood has drained away from my brain and out through my thumb and I don’t have the wherewithal to get to the clinic until tomorrow, what does tetanus feel like?’
“Oh. You want to know how it make you sick?”
“Yes. Please. I beg of you.”
“OK. It say here that your throat close. Et tes muscles, they get tight…stiff. Bad. And, oh - no moving. Yes, it say here that it will be difficult for moving.”
Well, I’d imagine with my breathing passage cut off, there wouldn’t be much chance of a tap dancing career…
“Any more question?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been, um, well, yes.”
“OK - merci d’avoir applez Info Sante. Bonne Chance.”
Right. Good luck. I’ll be needing that. Along with another roll of Bounty. Anyone? Anyone? Little help, here….
(*In order to help out our hard done by heroine, proceed on to Part Two!)
