Drunken Stitches

At the time, hiding in a cornfield to scare an approaching group of friends seemed like an absolute no-brainer.

Who wouldn't? It doesn't matter how old you are; if you are of the male gender, it's at night, and you are presented with this opportunity, only an unimaginative snob would decide against it. It surprises me that when I tell this story orally, people actually roll their eyes when I describe how my friend and I ducked into the adjacent cornfield, waiting for the right moment to scare the living crap out of our approaching buddies.

I have to admit at this point, the idea was all David's. He was a little drunker than I was, his passion for quality spirits having become evident well before sundown. I wasn't far behind, since the switch to my beloved gin and tonic from the relatively steadying effect of Guinness started at sundown. Nevertheless, after quickly stating his proposal he all but vanished from my side. Knowing the idea was irresistible and well-timed, I heard a whispered, "WELL?" from about 5 feet into the dark rows of corn. Glancing over my shoulder and seeing our two fellow drunks stumbling down the side of the road, I pushed through the tall stalks and practically tripped over the patiently crouching David.

Seeing as how this was sort of David's show, I patiently waited next to him, listening to the voices getting louder. To our disappointment, they weren't quite as inebriated as we were, and were talking about where we had hidden. I was in the process of whispering the question of where David had put his scotch glass when he decided to spring his trap. I should have known this, since David, able to more acutely regress to adolescence than I, understood that the element of surprise was partially lost and could only be saved if done immediately. He had even anticipated the necessity of his actions requiring two hands, as he had thoughtfully put his scotch glass into one of his large side pockets. Whether it still contained alcohol when he did this has been lost to the mystery of history. What is known, was that I was trying to keep corn leaves out of my gin and tonic when I realized I was alone again - this time in a claustrophobic dark corn row, listening to the nearby commotion of David attempting to salvage a scare with the effort of an inspired athlete.

He had leapt from my side with catlike reflexes and a tiger-like growl, only to find that his two prey were still a considerable distance off. What he managed to find was that the ruts made in the corn field were extremely hard to negotiate under these circumstances. Off balance and probably pre-occupied with his roaring efforts, he very quickly stumbled his way out of the cornfield and onto the ground, changing from the loud roar to the sound of a man wearing a tuxedo and slowly falling into a pool. The instant laughter of his would be victims revealed his plan had fallen apart alongside him.

Pushing my way out of the corn, I was met with the sight of my friends doubled over in laughter and David getting up and cursing that he had broken his glass. He walked out into the empty country road to empty his pocket, and broken shards of scotch glass fell out of his shorts and onto the pavement. He told us he thought he cut his leg on the glass when he fell on it, and there was warm liquid dripping onto his foot. A flashlight displayed dark blood all over his lower leg, down onto his foot, and dripping off his flip-flop. Instantly fearing the glass had cut into his femoral vein or artery, I was already thinking of how to convince him it was necessary to stand on his groin after forcing him to the ground again. I wouldn't have hesitated to do that if his artery was hit, since death is minutes if not seconds away without proper pressure. His vein would have been less serious, but still potentially life threatening and very messy.

I took one look at the laceration, which was thankfully on the lateral aspect of his mid thigh, and saw a very small amount of bleeding from a 2 inch long full thickness cut. Subcutaneous yellow fat glared back at me in the shine from the flashlight. He would need stitches. The laughter had very quickly changed to curses all around. We were in the middle of a 4 day sailing trip and away from home, making a drawn out ER visit more than just a hassle. David, the captain of our expedition and an enthusiastic sailor, was dreading not his leg, but the delay of a well-planned sailing expedition. His demeanor of drunken adolescent to concerned drunken captain occurred the moment he felt hot blood on his foot.

Because we were on land partying at a friend's parent's place, the idea of waiting in an ER all night for a couple sutures was dreaded by all. Until Jim had a great idea. It was he we were visiting, at his parent's house, and his dad is a doctor. Being out in the country, his dad's little office actually had suture material complete with lidocaine. We all batted around the idea of waking him up to sew David's leg, when Jim asked why I couldn't do it, afterall, I sew skin practically every day I go to work. So I did.

Getting there would be a problem, since all of us were in varying stages of drunken stupor. Urging Jim to wake up his little sister, who happened to be a co-ed home on vacation, I assessed the situation. I had no idea what the office would be like, whether it would be too dark, too dirty, definitely no back-up if the bleeding became uncontrolled. I was starting to get nervous. Then I thought of what might happen if everything did go well. Would it get infected later? Would it reopen on the following days at sea? I was getting pretty nervous. At one point David rather tentatively asked how often I suture skin, and I gave him an honest answer - pretty much every day I go to work. I didn't tell him that work was made up of unquestionably sterile procedures, a 10 million dollar inventory of possible instruments and material, and available help within talking distance. I needed a drink.

I knew from experience that anxiety is contagious, and if everybody realized that I was uncomfortable, the mood of the situation would go into the crapper.

Asking one of the guys to fix me a quick gin and tonic for the road, I watched him disappear into the house while I re-examined David's leg. A little while later he re-emerged empty handed with a face smeared with tomato sauce. We were all piling into the car when I asked him what happened to my much needed crutch, and he guiltily told me he fixed himself a bowl of spaghetti instead. I realized at that moment we were all too drunk to be doing this.

When April opened the door to the dark office, I half expected to see the sterility and cleanliness similar to the hospital in which I work. An entire department of cleaning staff disinfects every floor and surface every night of the week at the hospital. This privately owned office evidently did not have a cleaning staff. Lighting up each room, I was disappointed to find a disorderly array of equipment randomly placed in different rooms. Rummaging through drawers with the help of our volunteering co-ed, we found expired suture packs. Most of them had been torn and the suture inside was dry-rotted or something. There were a few sutures that seemed alright, so I grabbed them, along with the instruments which were surprisingly in peel-packs and evidently sterile.

I found a small fridge in the corner, and pushing aside somebody's old lunch and a half eaten apple, I spotted a half bottle of lidocaine next to the Snapple. Crap - it had already been used, and it could have been double tapped with a dirty needle. In a hospital, you aren't allowed to restore open meds - you have no idea if the last person was using sterile technique or not. In a privately owned doc's office, the money used to buy new lidocaine bottles comes right out of the bank account of the solo practicing physician.

I figured the cold temp of the fridge destroyed any existing bacteria or virus, so I decided to use it anyway. It was clear that my hospital standards would be challenged throughout the procedure with the more field-quality standards of a country doctor's office. I would simply have to adapt.

David lay down on his side on an exam table in one of the most dimly lit exam rooms I have ever been in. The rest of the office was dark, and there were 3 of us huddled over david's bleeding leg. I had him pull down his pants and instructed Clarissa, the young co-ed, to dab his wound with a sterile 4x4. I collected a small amount of alcohol from about 10 disposable swabs and cleaned out the incision with the liquid and my gloved finger. There was no glass in there.

I drew up the lidocaine and realized how nervous and sober I had become waiting to sew him. I caught the attention of everyone in the room as I was visibly shaking while preparing to inject. The next step was to numb him up and go to work, and here was the patient, my best friend, staring at the quivering needle held by a drunk man. Although there was a generous supply of adrenaline floating through my veins, I still felt the effects of a full night of drinking. It was now about 1 am, and as I pushed the needle into his laceration, I had to strain my eyes to focus and spread my legs to keep from wobbling. Clarissa stood next to me and assisted, going along with her brother's drunk idiot friends in their moment of action.

I hate to think of the details regarding what I did, since they weren't done under the best of conditions, but in the end his leg was sewn shut. I pushed more than 10 cc's of lidocaine into his skin (although he probably could have taken none), and then threw in about 4 or 5 interrupted simple sutures. My hands started to come under my control a little more after I was finishing, but the irregularity of the laceration combined with the irregularity of my pickled brain made for one of my lesser proud suture lines. David was happy he didn't have to use insurance or delay the trip, though.

I dressed the wound as though we were exiting surgery, going so far as to tape seal the edges of the gauze. I was well aware of the dirty and close quarters on a multi-day sailing trip, and was petrified his leg would infect. Since the night was still young, and we were all able to stand up straight without having to apply pressure on a bleeding wound, we decided to have a drink. Down the block happened to be a busy bar, and we left the dark office and walked into the bustling establishment to rehydrate with a few more beverages of choice.

The next morning I awoke with a headache wondering if I should confess to Jim's dad that we had commandeered his office for a little meatball surgery; but I ended up not having to worry. Everybody else had already told him, and he was not only interested in the goings-on overnight, but seemed happy about them. He even inspected my suturing, congratulated me on the job I had done, and redressed the wound to his liking. Which incidentally involved a single piece of gauze and 3 strips of black electrical tape.

The rest of the trip was great, and David's leg never got infected. It was probably a little sore the next day on the way home, but since he was in the middle of a sailing trip, he never once complained about it, true captain as he was. He even took the sutures out himself a week later, still grateful for my services, despite the uneven traintracks I had put into him.

Sometimes while I am sewing a surgical site shut at work I smile to myself, remembering the night I nervously stitched my best friend's leg closed in a dark office at 1am, while a college girl wiped blood off his naked leg, drunk off my ass.

Maybe hiding in a cornfield to scare the hell out of your friends wasn't a bad idea after all.