“I hope you’re not going to be really mad at me….” her small worried voice came from the doorway and I turned my head to pay attention. She was standing a bit funny and her voice continued “I saw that knife in the hall and it was beautiful, and I used it on my leg.” This, about the same instant my brain registered something weird on her upper thigh. It sunk in: that’s a cut.
Let me back-fill a bit … I’m getting ahead of myself in the interest of adding dramatic tension; here’s what was happening: I was doing a photo-shoot with a model I’ve worked with several times, a beautiful young lady who I really enjoy working with. She’s a “cutter“. I don’t at all understand cutters but when I’m photographing them, I just emphasize or deemphasize it with the lights, or photoshop it out, or whatever, as I see fit based on my creative intent. It really hasn’t affected me so I have always treated it as a “lifestyle choice” even though I know that depression and self-image/self-harm are hardly a choice. I realize now that it can also become my problem.
There is a blade I was working on as part of a cooking knife set, which I had left lying on a cart in the hallway; apparently she thought it was pretty and tried it on her leg – and it was a whole lot sharper than the knives she was used to using. My mind has a permanent image of a cut that looks about 7″-8″ long with subcutaneous fat showing clear yellow on the edges where it’s pulling apart, and dark muscle underneath.
I have a first aid kit in my studio, which I immediately grab as I get her to lie on her back, and I hand her micropore tape to start taping the edges together with. I’m – well, I’m “freaking out.” She seems calm. I’m not.
See, here’s a thing: I go into shock at the sight of blood. When I was in high school, working at my friend Willy’s dad’s shop, I sliced the top off one of my knuckles on a piece of steel I was cutting. I went upstairs to ask Mrs Moore for bandages and passed out, fell straight over backwards, and gave myself a horrible concussion. The time after that when I cut myself with a samurai sword, I had the presence of mind to duct tape everything together, lie down and tape my wrist to the leg of the sink to elevate it, before I passed out. A couple years ago when I ran a high-speed drill bit up the back of my left index finger and tore it apart from nail to middle knuckle, I taped it together, lay down, passed out, came to, poured isopropyl in it to sterilize it, passed out, came to, and thought “I’m getting the hang of this.”
She worked on taping her leg together while I incoherently coached her, then I started to feel like I was going to throw up and decided I needed to leave the room – also to empty the passenger seat of my jeep – and, my memory gets muzzy from there out. It seems I got up, ran out, and face-planted on the concrete floor.
So instead of being the heroic rescuer with the first-aid kit, I was semi-conscious and she helped me to her car and drove me to Clearfield General where we both limped into the ER looking like something out of Fight Club.
My Mouth Wired Shut 