Splinter

Last night I was sitting on my new (old) futon, running my hand along the distressed arm of the frame when I felt it, a small, slim piece of wood burrowing into my epidermis: a splinter. Normally, my less-than-composed-when-faced-with-a-medical-emergency self would overreact out of sheer terror, but even though my heart was doing a pretty good job of keeping up the tempo of music pounding in my ears, I stayed cool.

It wasn't like I sliced my finger with a knife or anything; it was a splinter after all.

"Doc?" I kept my voice at an even tone.

"Yeah?" He was trying to sleep and not paying the slightest bit of attention to me.

"I have a sliver."

He sat up, the fog of semi-consciousness dissipating. "You what?"

I leaned forward and he took my outstretched hand, fingers splayed to reveal the foreign body -- not much bigger than the head of a needle. I tried to pick it out myself but I lacked the ability to pinch it between my manicured nails and therefore needed assistance.

Sure it wasn't quite like extracting a foreign object from deep within the cavernous human body or suturing a gaping flesh wound back together, but given he's still in med school, I figured I'd take the opportunity to teach him a lesson in medicine, however slight. Let's just hope he doesn't bill my insurance company for his time.