The Story of My Life :P

New Year's Eve

    My choir will be going on tour very soon. We’ve all been taking every opportunity to raise money so we can have a full week off for fun and adventure, and I am no exception.

    New Year’s Eve, I was working a booth at a big citywide event. Mrs. Dennewitz was teaching me how to use the cotton candy machine, which is a serious death trap. It was hard with my over-sized gloves to avoid the spinning, whirring circle of doom in the middle. Over-sized gloves + naturally clumsy Natalie + whirring thing of death = NOT A GOOD IDEA. But hey, I’m dedicated.

            As you can imagine, I dropped the cotton candy I was twirling onto a paper stick in the machine. I tried to pick it up, but my finger caught on the thing in the middle.

            I pulled my hand out of the machine and stripped off my glove, revealing a mildly bloody middle finger on my right hand. It felt almost like it had been broken, but I would have recognized the feeling if it were.

            “Only a little blood,” I dismissed it. It wasn’t anything serious, and I had no issues with blood. But I did not want to work the cotton candy machine/death trap anymore. I made my way to the front to work the cash register.

    Pain and mild nausea in my stomach warned me that something was wrong. Then I started feeling like I needed to lie down, and I thought I was going to pass out. My hearing started to go, like there was cotton stuffed in my ears. Sound became distant. My vision blurred. My breath shortened. My skin became clammy, and I started to sweat and shake.

            I sat down in a chair and called behind me.

            “Mrs. Dennewitz?”

            She didn’t hear me. I didn’t want to call again; it wasted breath—breath I needed. In the end, though, my need for assistance prevailed. I called again, louder.

            “Mrs. Dennewitz?”

            She peered around the cotton candy machine. “Yes?”

            “I’m not feeling so well all of a sudden…” I nearly blacked out. I had to stop talking and focus on breathing.

            The girls who had been working as cashiers during the last shift came over.

            “Natalie, are you okay?” They asked, concerned.

            I shook my head.

            One of the other adult women, Mrs. Diltz, came over.

            “Natalie, what’s the matter?” She asked.

            In between breaths I told her my symptoms, then asked for some water. She sent my friend Brent to go find bottled water and a pack of ice. He ran off and came back in an instant, and Mrs. Diltz took off the cap, handing me the bottle. Hand shaking, I managed to take a few sips. Then I put the ice pack on my forehead. It felt soothing on my clammy skin. I left it there for a moment, then moved it to the back of my neck.

            Everything beyond five feet of me was vague. It wasn’t until I had taken a few sips of water that my vision and hearing cleared, and from there things started getting better by the minute. I felt less clammy, my shaking eased, and my breath returned to normal. Then I started wondering what on earth had caused my little episode. All of that from a cotton candy machine? I just nicked my finger! That was all!

            “Can I have a band aid for my finger?” I requested, remembering my cut.

            “Yes, sweetheart.” She ordered Brent to go get a band aid, too. She stuck it on my finger and waited beside me until I felt well enough to stand.

            Keeping my water bottle with me, I eased myself out of the chair. I realized then how cold I was, and went to the back of the booth to grab my jacket. For good measure, I grabbed my thick coat, too, and put both on. Then I made my way to the front and worked with my friend from theatre as a cashier. I stayed there for almost my whole shift. Then, at ten, my shift ended and I left to go to my church for an overnight-er with my youth group.

            I really hope the amount of money we made during my shift was worth the trouble.  

       My finger still hurts really bad from that stupid machine of doom.