When I was 11 or so, I burned myself pretty badly in the kitchen. So what did I do? Ran to the downstairs bathroom, fifty feet away, to run cold water on my arm. As opposed to the sink that was two feet behind me.
My arm healed without incident, fortunately; the delay of ten seconds or so made no appreciable difference. But it was when I was putting gauze on it that I had my :smack: moment. Until then, I just had it ingrained in me that the bathroom is where the medicine cabinet is, so that’s where you go for all injuries.
Google-fu fails me on the IQ-dropping-30-points thing; most of the cites come up with head injuries and losses of 15 to 20 points. Any idea where you heard it, Can Handle the Truth?
It was probably many things. I know for me (when I was a kid) fear of parental wrath was worse than any silly injury.
When I was about 7, I burned myself pretty badly and lied to my parents about it. We were putting up Christmas tree lights and blew a fuse (back in the stone ages when houses still had fuse boxes). Mom went down to change it and told us not to mess with the tree lights. Of course, what did I do once she went downstairs? Tried to plug in the lights.
I have no idea why the act of changing a fuse at the same time as plugging in tree lights resulted in what it did. All I know is a blue flame shot out of the electrical socket, burning up my right hand, singing off my eyebrows (which have never fully grown back), and burning much of my hair.
Mom immediately noticed that something was horribly wrong and rushed upstairs. Where she was hit with the aroma of burned child. That tends to freak mothers out. She asked what had happened and I (being the honest, truthful, responsible kid that seven year olds are known to be) said my brother did it. Then I rushed off to the bathroom to rinse my hand under cold water.
Mom checked out my brother for burns and noticed nothing. At the same time, she noticed that the charred child smell was now coming from the bathroom. She walked in on me and saw the lovely sight of me with singed off eyebrows, a burned hand, and wild, electrified hair.
At the time this happened, Ivygirl was 12. As in, Chatterbox/Everything is a Crisis/Screaming When She Stubs Her Toe/ 12 year old.
I was at work and Ivylad was laying down when Ivygirl was cutting an orange. She decided to cut this orange with a butcher knife. Yes, she sliced her finger quite nicely.
She didn’t scream, she didn’t yell, all she did was say “Oh,” and whisper to her brother to come over. They then proceeded to tiptoe into the bedroom to wake Ivylad.
She needed two stitches in her finger, right where the knuckles is.
Oh, I remember a time when I was little, maybe 5 or so. I think it was Valentine’s Day at school, and my mother was going to help my address Valentines to my classmates.
She had just taken a kettle off the stove burner and had taken her tea into the living room. The burner wasn’t red anymore, and I put my hand flat on the burner.
Yes, it hurt, but I was afraid my mother would be mad at me and not help me with my Valentines, so I didn’t tell her.
Maybe it’s a good thing from an evolutionary perspective. If you’re injured badly you shouldn’t just roll around on the ground feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get out of danger quickly, even if you’re hurt or injured. There will be time later on to nurse your wounds.
Of course, given that we are now “civilized” and have doctors and hospitals, that behavior isn’t always the smartest thing.
Ahhh, the mandolin. Every single person I have ever encountered who has used one of those things has given themselves at least one severe injury with it. I have never used one, and if I do I will make sure to wear chainmail gloves.
Best ever was a TV clip of some Chef show:
“And now I’m going to quickly slice this up with a mandolin. I like these because they give nice thin slices really quickly and easily. They have a reputation for being dangerous [smiles at camera] but if you’re careful there’s really nothing to worry about. All you…” :eek: [gawps down at copious blood pouring from finger]
My best effort was when I was about 8 and decided to help my parents by sharpening the scythe with a kitchen steel. Swish, swish, swish, swish, splatter, swish, splatter, oh, I seem to be bleeding everywhere from my middle finger. Ooops.
Mum won’t be impressed with my lack of brains, better not tell her. She’s still kinda cranky about that whole cutting off my thumb thing and that was YEARS ago. It’ll stop on its own. Soon. Anytime now. Or at any rate, it’ll stop spurting so much. I feel kind woozy. [sigh] Oh well, guess I’d better 'fess up.
“Mum, my finger’s bleeding…” I still have the scar a quarter-century later. On my finger, that is. Mum didn’t give me any scars, just bruises.
Basically, I think the denial explanation is pretty much spot-on. People have this instinct that tells them 'Nah, it can’t be bad, because then it would mean that I am seriously injured, and bad things don’t relly happen to me, they happen to others. It’s just a minor thing." People aren’t very rational about applying facts to themselves. Hence they refuse to believe that their diet will give them a heart attack, that they will die unless they take that silly little pill every day, that smoking will fuck them up royally, that they are not the only person in the world who can drive safely after six drinks, etc.
A friend was at a gathering where she mentioned that her son was selling Cutco knives. Simulatenously everyone she was talking to held up whatever body part had gotten cut with one of the supersharp Cutco products.