Those of us inside the house heard him calling from this outdoor kitchen, in a calm voice, "Mom...Mom..."
Mom went to see why he was calling her and was dismayed by the carnage, which was in direct opposition to his calm tone of voice. It wasn't her first medical emergency (nor her first medical emergency with Isaac, for that matter), and as quickly as she could, she had Isaac and the entirety of his thumb in the car and on the road to the hospital.
Which left me with a blood-spattered kitchen to take care of.
I am not known for my strength of stomach in cases involving blood or medical procedures of any kind, which is probably why, quite unfairly, I must say, I have always considered this event in our lives nearly as traumatic for me as it was for Isaac and his mutilated thumb.
He was a boy scout! I thought people like that were supposed to be well-versed in knife safety!
And I had to clean it all up.
It was a big task for someone who's always been a few steps to the left of sensible concerning matters of the human body and its medical needs. After the kitchen was properly cleaned, the kids had to be fed some other form of dinner. Mom and Dad and Isaac didn't return until nearly bedtime--Isaac with a stitched up and bandaged thumb. He still has the tip of his thumb, a little scarred and lumpy, but it's there. It was quick thinking for Mom who got him to the hospital so fast--but I've always liked to mention my role in clean-up duty for this little disaster.
I'm not saying that my excessive squeamishness or the fact that I make a big deal out of cleaning up a blood-spattered kitchen while my only brother is on the way to the ER are admirable traits--in fact, I think they're quite the opposite. But that's just the kind of sister I am.