Here’s a story that I heard from my friend Laura, about her grandmother.
Laura’s grandmother lived in rural Newfoundland in the ’30s, on a farm.
Once, while pregnant, she went outside to chop wood with an axe. She was swinging the axe when she accidentally sliced off a good chuck of one of her calves, filleting it like a fish for dinner.
So she did what (naturally) any woman would do, she picked up the hunk of flesh from the ground, slapped it back on her leg, tied it on with a handkerchief, and resumed chopping wood. When she had finished chopping the wood, she gathered it all up and hauled it back to the house, with her leg still tied up and dripping blood.
Eventually a doctor was called, and it turned out that she had slapped the chunk of leg back on upside down, but it was too late to peel it off and turn it around, because healing had begun. So it stayed like that for the rest of her life.
Now that’s badass.
The day before yesterday, I was returning some tools to the workroom that the Captain had borrowed for his Scouts meeting. It was just a few little things so I left the door open and didn’t turn the light on, figuring I could feel my way to the two drawers I needed.
We’d been hanging some artwork on the weekend and one of the little hanger things, a golden metal clasp with jagged teeth, was lying on the floor, and I didn’t see it. I stepped on it and it jabbed right through my sock and deep into the heel of my foot.
I did what (naturally) any woman would do, which was start crying, and scream for my husband, who ran downstairs thinking I’d broken a bone. He yanked out the clasp and helped me upstairs where we removed the sock to see a small puncture wound oozing a bit of blood. He brought me a band aid.
I limped around the house for the next two days.
This whole incident has me feeling that Laura’s grandmother would be pretty disappointed in me. I feel I need to up my badassery just a wee bit.