War wounds

I was curled up on my couch last night dutifully doing my Bible study homework when my door bell rang. I answered it to see my neighbor and coworker, Rebecca, gasping in pain with a bloody towel wrapped around her hand.

She was attempting to fix her tread mill when it started up and caught her finger in the belt. It tore off her finger nail and a little skin along with it.

She had come over because she couldn't look at it herself and she was unsure what to do. I swallowed some nerves and took a look, then gave her some ice and a painkiller.

I'm generally okay with scratches or other minor injuries, but this was definitely stretching my comfort zone. So I did what I always do when I have a health question: call my sister, the family nurse. She didn't answer her phone.

It was Rebecca who thought of our other neighbor Lisa, who is also a nurse. Thank God she was home. She swooped in with a bag full of gloves, bandages and other supplies and bandaged Rebecca up without blinking.

At one point, as Rebecca was sitting their bleeding profusely, the thought that came to my mind was, "How is she going to type?" I chided myself for being insensitive, but felt a little better when she asked the same question about 30 seconds later. We are slaves to our job.

Lesson learned: Good thing I'm not a nurse.