The other night (the 30th) I was getting up from my computer chair, which is right next to the doorway in the computer room, when I slipped, fell, and smashed my head open on the edge of the open door. I got about an inch long, deep gash right on my eyebrow and a bit of a black eye. My grandmother thought I should go in for stitches, but was hemming and hawing about the impending storm (that didn't breeze in until about four hours later) that I told her I'd be fine, not to worry about it. We argued about it for most of the night, me insisting it was just a little cut and if I can stop the bleeding it'll be cool, my grandmother trying to come up with ideas to get me to the ER (after the snow started she wouldn't take me. She doesn't drive in snow).
Next day it's almost stopped bleeding, mostly oozing a bit, and I haven't had any sleep because my grandmother has told everyone on God's green Earth that I am walking around with a gaping, untreated head wound so they keep calling every five minutes to make sure that I'm still alive (so those worried about any sort of concussion that I was pretty sure I didn't have at the time, having had a couple of concussions in my life, I've only had about four hours of sleep in the past 30 hours). These people kept insisting if I needed a ride to the ER, they'd give me one, all I needed to do was call and they'd be here with bells on.
Well, the snow was up to my knees when I went to check the mail, so went and shoveled out the walkway. When I got done and went inside (it's not a long walkway, so it's not like I was out there for hours or doing a lot of shoveling), I realized my head was bleeding again and had bled through the band-aid and was dribbling down my face. I called up every person who had offered me a ride earlier in the day, and every last one of them told me that I was fine now, try various home remedies, there's nothing a doctor can do now, et cetera (keep in mind I have trained health professionals throughout my family. My own mother's a nurse, scary as that thought is to people who are acquainted with my mother's antics). My father, who had been eager to give me a ride, all of a sudden spent half an hour reading the riot act to me about having the gall to call him to take me to the hospital for just a little cut that he was sure was going to be fine and I was just making too much out of nothing because I do that. (I got the same riot act when I had a bad bike accident, falling so hard I broke my helmet in two and slid about four feet across the ground, and got bad road rash on my arm and leg when I was about eleven. I still have pieces of gravel in my arm and leg, as well as a lot of scars on both.)
My grandmother and aunt were willing to take me, but decided to make it as far as the house and try home remedies on me and play doctor and call it good (my favorite was my grandmother's rig with cut up dinosaur band-aids as makeshift butterflies and some gauze. It fell off ten minutes later and looked spectacularly tacky, not to mention covered up half my face). By this point hours had passed since I started bleeding again, it seemed to have stopped, I gave up and went to get some sleep (that lasted two hours, before my grandmother decided to nag me about eating).
So that takes us to now, where my friends are all in a frenzy ready to storm my house and take me to the ER themselves from wherever they are situated in the country because they think even if it seems fine now, it's one of those things a doctor should take a look at, while my family seems to have gone into "crisis over" mode, being able to pat themselves on the back for showing the required minimum of give-a-shit for me that they have to have. Me? I'm just really, really sick of changing my band-aids every hour or so.