Tonight, along with dinner — which was a very delicious white chicken chili, courtesy of my aunt — Jessica and I made corn bread. We put the batter in a skillet, then put the skillet in the oven. When the bread was done, I grabbed a pot holder and put the skillet on the stove. Jessica grabbed a knife to cut a slice of corn bread and asked me to hold the pan still.
Clearly not thinking what I was doing, I grabbed the skillet handle with my bare hand. “OW OW OW!” Jessica yelled at me. I looked at her, wondering what she was yelling about. Then I realized that my hand was on fire.
Well, not literal fire. But it felt like fire. I let go of the pan and turned around, turning on the faucet and sticking my hand underneath. Jessica soaked a washcloth in milk and we wrapped my hand.
Once the pain subsided a little — reduced to merely “constant burning,” down from “being eaten alive by living fire” — we retreated into the living room to call our doctor’s on-call line. After explaining (twice, once by Jessica, then again by me when they refused to talk to her about me) what happened, we were told that yes, I should definitely go to the ER. Since part of the burn was not only red, but white, it was possible the burn was quite bad. (Based on the way my hand felt at the time, you can bet I believed that.)
Fortunately, it was early enough in the evening that the Urgent Care just down the road had not closed yet. They took me back in short order, and it wasn’t long before I got a topical and some gauze with which to wrap my hand. The worst of my burns is on my thumb and palm, and after four of five days I should be able to ditch the gauze.
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