wound. I’m not so sure what to do . . .” He pauses and then calls across the raft. “Kent, give us a hand here.”
“I tell ya, we’re gonna use this whole first aid kit before the day’s over, then what do you plan on doing, huh?” He lumbers across the boat to where Dave and I sit.
After trading places with Dave, Kent’s rough fingers explore the bloody patch through my shirt. Clicking the first aid kit open, he searches through the crinkly packs of paper, picks a package, and rips it open with his teeth, spitting the torn-off piece into the ocean. The boat leans sideways as he drops his arm over the edge and splashes his hand in the water.
“What’s going on . . .” I can’t finish my question, cut off by a hot slice of pain. Kent presses something wet against my shoulder. It’s only because I know Dave wouldn’t let Kent hurt me that I can stay still, breathing in and out in slow, controlled breaths. He pulls my arm back abruptly, blackness flooding in with the pain.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” Dave’s voice says from somewhere behind me.
“It’s called counter-pressure. Unless you want to do this I suggest you shut up.”
“No,” his voice mellows, “just be careful.”
“I have to lift your shirt up.” He runs his hand up my bare back, pulling the shirt up slowly. “This is going to hurt,” he warns as the fabric pulls on the wound. Then there’s more ripping of paper and something rough being pressed against the wound. The sting of alcohol hits all at once, its tangy scent burning in my nostrils, and I whimper a bit.
“I’m sorry, doll, it’s very deep.” He almost sounds like he cares. “It’s gotta be good and clean before I close it up.”
“Close it up? How do you plan on doing that?” Dave doesn’t sound convinced.
I’m only half-conscious. Another rip and more alcohol, this time Kent rubs hard and it’s like sandpaper on the open sore.
“It’s too deep to slap a bandage on,” Kent explains. “If we don’t get it closed it’ll get infected and she’ll go downhill fast. It’s not like we’ve got ourselves any antibiotics, right?”
“So, how do you plan on closing it up, Kent?” Dave repeats, his impatience building.
“You said there’s a sewing kit in that magic bag right? Well, I’m gonna use it for a little sewing project.”
“Maybe we should wait till the rescue workers come,” Dave argues. “I’m not doubting your abilities but I think they’re better trained for this.”
“Are you out of your mind or something?” Kent says tossing his last alcohol wipe into the ocean, then sitting up and cracking his neck. “Remember, there aren’t going to be any magic rescue people, at least not for a long time. If we don’t take care of ourselves, all they’re going to find is a boat full of bodies.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. “Do it now . . . please.”
“Are you sure, Lillian? We can wait a little longer if you want.” It’s Dave, giving me an out. I don’t want to wait. I want it to be over.
“Kent—do it now .”
“That’s a smart girl,” Kent says, like I’m a horse or dog. Dave doesn’t argue anymore, and I try not to listen as Kent preps for the procedure. “Okay, doll, try not to move.”
The cool metal needle is sharp. The instant it pierces my ragged skin, I can’t help but flinch from the deep, piercing pain.
“Shit! You’ve got to stay still,” he mutters through grinding teeth.
I try to remember the visualization techniques I learned in my birthing classes. Zen, I’ll be completely Zen. When Kent’s fingers frame the wound, I go deeper inside myself, using all that imagery Nurse Karen taught me during Lamaze. But I ended up with an epidural with both kids, so a lot of good that did me.
On one of my slow exhales, Kent pushes the needle through my skin, faster this time. I can actually feel the thread gliding through. When he sticks the needle through the other side, I lose my cool,
“I tell ya, we’re gonna use this whole first aid kit before the day’s over, then what do you plan on doing, huh?” He lumbers across the boat to where Dave and I sit.
After trading places with Dave, Kent’s rough fingers explore the bloody patch through my shirt. Clicking the first aid kit open, he searches through the crinkly packs of paper, picks a package, and rips it open with his teeth, spitting the torn-off piece into the ocean. The boat leans sideways as he drops his arm over the edge and splashes his hand in the water.
“What’s going on . . .” I can’t finish my question, cut off by a hot slice of pain. Kent presses something wet against my shoulder. It’s only because I know Dave wouldn’t let Kent hurt me that I can stay still, breathing in and out in slow, controlled breaths. He pulls my arm back abruptly, blackness flooding in with the pain.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” Dave’s voice says from somewhere behind me.
“It’s called counter-pressure. Unless you want to do this I suggest you shut up.”
“No,” his voice mellows, “just be careful.”
“I have to lift your shirt up.” He runs his hand up my bare back, pulling the shirt up slowly. “This is going to hurt,” he warns as the fabric pulls on the wound. Then there’s more ripping of paper and something rough being pressed against the wound. The sting of alcohol hits all at once, its tangy scent burning in my nostrils, and I whimper a bit.
“I’m sorry, doll, it’s very deep.” He almost sounds like he cares. “It’s gotta be good and clean before I close it up.”
“Close it up? How do you plan on doing that?” Dave doesn’t sound convinced.
I’m only half-conscious. Another rip and more alcohol, this time Kent rubs hard and it’s like sandpaper on the open sore.
“It’s too deep to slap a bandage on,” Kent explains. “If we don’t get it closed it’ll get infected and she’ll go downhill fast. It’s not like we’ve got ourselves any antibiotics, right?”
“So, how do you plan on closing it up, Kent?” Dave repeats, his impatience building.
“You said there’s a sewing kit in that magic bag right? Well, I’m gonna use it for a little sewing project.”
“Maybe we should wait till the rescue workers come,” Dave argues. “I’m not doubting your abilities but I think they’re better trained for this.”
“Are you out of your mind or something?” Kent says tossing his last alcohol wipe into the ocean, then sitting up and cracking his neck. “Remember, there aren’t going to be any magic rescue people, at least not for a long time. If we don’t take care of ourselves, all they’re going to find is a boat full of bodies.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. “Do it now . . . please.”
“Are you sure, Lillian? We can wait a little longer if you want.” It’s Dave, giving me an out. I don’t want to wait. I want it to be over.
“Kent—do it now .”
“That’s a smart girl,” Kent says, like I’m a horse or dog. Dave doesn’t argue anymore, and I try not to listen as Kent preps for the procedure. “Okay, doll, try not to move.”
The cool metal needle is sharp. The instant it pierces my ragged skin, I can’t help but flinch from the deep, piercing pain.
“Shit! You’ve got to stay still,” he mutters through grinding teeth.
I try to remember the visualization techniques I learned in my birthing classes. Zen, I’ll be completely Zen. When Kent’s fingers frame the wound, I go deeper inside myself, using all that imagery Nurse Karen taught me during Lamaze. But I ended up with an epidural with both kids, so a lot of good that did me.
On one of my slow exhales, Kent pushes the needle through my skin, faster this time. I can actually feel the thread gliding through. When he sticks the needle through the other side, I lose my cool,
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