Steven Soderbergh and the Second Degree Burn

“Jon, I’ve burned my hand.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jon.
“What should I do?”
“Have you run it under cold water?”
“Yes.”
“Is it blistering?”
“I don’t know, maybe?”
“See if it blisters, and if it does a lot, then you should probably go to the emergency room. If no blistering, or not much, then don’t.”
“Thanks, Jon.”

I put the phone down, and picked up my bag of frozen peas. When I first burned myself I’d used frozen blackberries, but they had thawed, and I switched to peas. With my good hand I picked up my fork and resumed eating the dinner I had burned myself making.
I un-paused the DVD and began again to watch Andie MacDowell flail about James Spader’s tiny, sparsely-furnished apartment. She thought James Spader was a pervert, and she was unhappy about it.
As I watched I gnawed at chicken thighs, alternating with forkfuls of mashed potatoes. My hand began to get cold, so I put down the peas, leading my hand to burn and sting, so I picked the peas back up, only to put them down again a minute later. As Andie MacDowell left James Spader in an awkward huff, I went to my wallet for my insurance card. I found the number I wanted on the back, dialed it, and soon was speaking to a registered nurse with a Mid-Western accent.
“What have you done to treat your burn?” she asked me, and I told her in detail.
“Take the frozen veggies off,” she told me, “I know they feel good but they cut off the circulation to your hand and might cause more harm than good.”
The nice lady told me I could soak my hand in cool water for up to fifteen minutes at a time, “for comfort.” I should then keep it out of the water for a half-hour, to let the blood circulate. I thanked her and returned to Andie MacDowell, whose bushy-eye-browed husband was sleeping with her sister.
I was able to follow the movie while my hand soaked, but when my fifteen minutes expired, and I dumped the water, I couldn’t think of anything but my hand, which felt like I was still holding the 400 degree panhandle from two hours previous. I was vaguely aware that Ms. MacDowell’s character was divorcing her husband.
I considered chopping my hand off.
There was some fighting; not sure between whom.
With my good hand, I began smacking myself in the head.
James Spader was onscreen again, looking uncomfortable, presumably because he could see what kind of pain I was in. I looked at the clock to see that it had been less than ten minutes since I took my hand out of the water.
“I could call someone,” I thought. “Call them and talk about what, how much your hand hurts?”
Back on the TV there was about to be sex, but I didn’t care at all. It had only been fifteen minutes, but I decided I’d had my fill of blood circulating, and refilled the bowl with cold water in time to see the closing moments of the movie I’d barely followed. Things appeared to have worked out. I turned on David Letterman and waited for the pain to go away so I could sleep.
The next day I had a hell of a blister. I showed it off to many gratifying “Oohs,” “Aahs,” and “Oh sicks.” It isn’t much by way of compensation, but it's better than nothing at all.