A couple of years ago, when I lived in military single accom, I used to cook my own meals in the little kitchen near my rooms in the Mess. One lunchtime I decided to prepare some mushrooms on toast. Because I had recently bought a new cleaver, I decided to use it to slice some garlic and the mushrooms. All went well, so I thought a parsley garnish was needed. So, a bunch of parsley, a very sharp cleaver, and then - a sort of crunching noise, and the realisation that I had cut my finger - or, to be more accurate, I'd cut the end of my finger off, nail and all.
As a former paramedic, I immediately did the wrong thing, and stuck it under the tap. This was immensely painful, but reminded me that direct pressure was the answer; a tea towel came to hand. It was clear that this was not going to be an quick plaster job. I phoned SWMBO, who is a nurse and who was at work.
Me: "I've cut my finger"
SWMBO: "Why have you rung me to tell me."
Me: "No, I've really cut my finger. I can't stop it bleeding."
SWMBO: "You'd better come to the ward" (I work at the same hospital)
So, I drove myself, feeling nauseous and faint, but thankfully in an automatic car, down to work. Expecting to have to wait at the gate, and then go and sign in, I drove up to the entrance. The gates were open and the security guards opened the barriers and told me to go straight in. There was SWMBO at the entrance; she took me straight in and had the duty surgeon standing by.
Anyway, one branch block and a large dose of opiate later, the finger end was dressed and a sling applied.
SWMBO had to change the dressing daily for two weeks; I rather got the impression that she enjoyed it.
Anyway, it healed well, but I'm left with a scar that reminds me to respect blades every time I use one.