Have you ever needed help with something but just kept trying, thinking, “I can do it myself,” then something happens and spirals out of control? I have unfortunately been on that slippery slope. 

It all happened when I was four, unaware of the dangers of doing foolish things. My parents had instructed me to go complete the irksome task of unloading the dishwasher. My sister and I dragged ourselves to the kitchen to start on the assignment. Burdened by misery, I began the loathsome chore. I had been assigned the top shelf and made quick work, trying to get it over with. It was then that I noticed a pizza cutter wedged between the tines of the dishwasher that held dishes in place during the violent ride. The tool was fascinating to my four-year-old eyes. One silver blade, rotating around on a black base, its shiny surface making a reflection of the beholder’s face. The circular shape made it easier for the hungry individual to cut their pizza in perfect, triangular configurations. After wiggling the pizza cutter around and pulling on it, I tried yanking on the tool with all my strength, which wasn’t very hard, but the tines of the dishwasher decided to give up their hold on the cutter and the utensil flew out. Unfortunately, the pizza cutter gave way on a hard pull sending the momentum of my strength with the tool in an upwards motion. Before I could stop it, the pizza cutter came crashing into my forehead. Pain seared through my head as the sharp blade connected with my skull. My sister turned around from putting the silverware in a drawer, her eyes widening upon the horrific site. I immediately jerked my hand down, dropping the pizza cutter, and started bawling my eyes out with screams sounding like I was dying. Wet, sticky liquid dribbled down my face. The faint metallic smell of blood invaded my nostrils. In the other room my dad was on a phone call and upon hearing my screams, rushed into the kitchen like a race car at the ending of a race. My mom also came running in and grabbed a paper towel to press against my wound. I was ushered into the bathroom and told to sit on the floor while my mom ransacked the bandage bin for gauze and band aids. Through watery eyes, I saw my dad standing at the doorway with my sister.

“Will she need stitches?” My dad asked over my screaming and crying. 

“I don’t know, I’ll send Dr. McKelly a picture to see if we need to take her to the emergency room.” My mom hastily cleaned up my injury, having had experience working in the ICU. Her phone vibrated with the message declaring my fate. “Well it looks like she won’t need stitches.” 

My crying slowed down and I began to breathe normally. As a four-year-old, I thought stitches would be like getting your tongue ripped out. Hearing the news that I wouldn’t be receiving stitches was a good enough reason for me to stop screaming.  

“I’ll glue the wound together,” my mom said, grabbing the small bottle of superglue. A couple minutes later, I came out of the bathroom glued together and bandaged up, holding a frozen ice pack cocooned in a towel. Then a slight smile graced my lips. I wouldn’t have to finish unloading the dishwasher, although the price would be that I would forever have a scar to remind me of that day.

Looking back, it was actually quite fortunate for me that I was young because I wasn’t very strong and the blade of the pizza cutter only chipped into my skin, instead of blowing a hole through my frontal bone. Along with a permanent scar and a slight phobia of pizza cutters, I learned two lessons that day. One being, when you need help, ask for it. And the other is, don’t mess with the dishwasher.