It happened the morning after Thanksgiving.
My brother-in-law, Mike, was helping prep sweet potatoes for dinner. He was using my mandoline slicer — you know, the sharp kind that could double as a weapon in a horror movie.
His hand slipped.
The blade went straight through his palm — diagonal, deep, horrifying. I could see things moving inside that shouldn’t have been visible.
Blood hit the counter. The floor. My hands.
My sister screamed. I grabbed the dish towels — the nice ones, of course — and pressed down hard.
They turned red instantly.
“Where’s your first aid kit?” she shouted.
Under the sink. The good one.
The $65 Johnson & Johnson kit from Target with 140 pieces. I’d counted them once, feeling smugly “prepared.”
She dumped it on the counter. Band-Aids everywhere. Little gauze pads. Antibiotic ointment. Tape.
None of it could stop the blood pouring from Mike’s hand.
The ambulance took nine minutes.
Nine minutes of pressing towels, switching them out as they soaked through.
Nine minutes of panic.
Nine minutes of realizing I had nothing that could actually save him.
Mike survived — barely. He needed surgery to repair tendons and still can’t fully close his hand.
But those nine minutes?
They changed me forever.