Abbey Tetzlaff Literacy Personal Narrative April 4th, 2012

Knitting Needle Mishap

Whack. The sound of my brother driving a sleek, blue knitting needle into a now-mangled box startled me. I watched Johnny stab the poor cardboard box again. And again. And again. I glanced at Mom, who was on the phone with my grandpa, wondering what she was talking about. When I turned my utterly mature five-year-old gaze back at Johnny, he smiled at me and brought the needle down with a bull-like on the box. Or should I say what he thought was the box. In truth, it was his thigh. Mamaaaaa....... Johnny moaned. Mom looked up and instantly jumped out of her chair. Um, Dad, Johnny just stabbed himself in the leg with a knitting needle... Can you come over right away? she said into her cell phone. He was there within minutes, as my grandparents lived right down the road from us. Mom hung up quickly and dialed three numbers I had been taught to recognize on sight. 9-1-1. She told the dispatcher what had happened. They'll be here soon, she assured both Johnny and me. I ran to the window,expecting the ambulance to come within 2 seconds. When they failed to do so, I started to panic. Where are they? They need to be here now! Hurry, people, my brother is hurt! I exclaimed dramatically. The minutes ticked away, each one a lifetime long. I could feel the tension in the air, making me as unpredictable as a cornered badger. When the first responders finally did arrive, they were dressed in frightening blue uniforms (remember, I'm five). In order to prepare Johnny for the ride to the hospital, they had to cut his jeans off with a scissors and secured the knitting needle with gauze. The ambulance arrived and placed Johnny on the stretcher. Johnny looked whiter than a sheet, but you could tell he was a little excited to be able to ride in the ambulance. Grandpa and I drove to the hospital while Mom rode in the ambulance with my brother. I was more nervous than a little kid going on a roller coaster for the first time. Once we got to the emergency room I stared around at the sterile, white room that was practically a prison. I could smell the alcohol that the doctors used on wounds... it was disgusting. The doctors ordered an x-ray of Johnny's leg before removing the needle to make sure it hadn't damaged any muscle. After getting the results, the doctor determined that the needle had not pierced the muscle. So right there and then, she carefully pulled it out of his thigh. Much to my surprise, the wound only bled a single drop, which blossomed like a rose on poor Johnny's skin. And guess what? He never shed a tear during the entire ordeal. Since then I have learned not to play with sharp objects. Especially knitting needles.