◉ 036 | Olga and the Bandage

I was about to make a sandwich.

Ham and cheese.

Took a bread loaf.

Took a knife.

A bread knife from Solingen, Germany.

Klingenstadt—

the City of Blades.

Top-quality blade.

The handle broke years ago.

Dad sculpted another from Bakelite.

From then on,

our knife smelled

of poly­oxy­benzyl­methylen­glycol­anhydride.

Both blades serrated.

One heavily serrated for frozen food.

Another less serrated for bread.

I noticed one end of the bread was missing.

My sister took it earlier that morning.

She, my dad, and me always fought

for that kantun—

the golden-crusted end of the bread.

Mum didn’t care.

But she cared if we cut both ends.

She hated it—

as she hated seeing a loaf

upside down.

But I cut it

anyway.

I held the golden corner

between my thumb

and index finger.

I mean, how else

to hold anything.

Eye-balled the middle.

Went in with the knife.

I sliced a bit too hard.

The knife passed the bread.

Went deep into my palm.

Fuck.

I dropped the bloodied bread.

Golden crust.

Now golden-red.

I looked at the gash.

It was deep.

As soon as I wiggled my thumb,

it opened like a sinkhole.

Mum came in from the yard.

She was yelling.

Panicking maybe.

We wrapped it quickly.

Mum sent me off

to see my doctor.

Alone.

It was a 5-6 minute walk from home.

The small clinic was next

to my primary school

I had to attend in the afternoon.

The waiting room was empty.

Just one person

at the dentist’s door.

I waited.

15–20 minutes.

The nurse opened the tiny window.

Took my health card.

“The doctor is on break.”

I had a peek under the bandage.

The blood stopped.

I wiggled my thumb.

The gash opened again.

It was strange.

Airy.

Kind of.

The blood started dripping again.

I covered it back.

After another 15–20 minutes

my doctor appeared from outside.

Out of breath.

Short.

Stocky.

Short blond hair.

Had some connection with Russia.

Olga—

the doc.

She had a quick look at my wound.

“You need stitches.

Will be in a minute.”

I couldn’t sit.

I paced the waiting room

for 15–20 minutes.

Hearing giggles from inside.

They were having brunch,

I think.

Maybe Olga bought sandwiches

for the nurse and herself.

Non-bloodied, hopefully.

Coffee cups clinking.

At this stage,

the waiting room was full.

The nurse

finally showed up.

Jaa-dri-jee-viiiiić.

The doc looked again.

“Lucky you—

you missed your thumb tendon

by a micron.”

She ordered the nurse to stitch it up

and called the next patient.

The nurse called it done.

The doc came from her room.

Checked the stitches.

“Dear, we ran out of narrow bandages.”

So the nurse started wrapping it

with a wide one.

A really wide bandage

to fit a kid’s palm

between the thumb and index finger.

I felt the stitches

stretching out.

Here and there,

my mum mentions

how much she regrets

sending me there

alone.

And always adds,

“That day

I lost respect

for Olga.”