What Not to Say to the 911 Operator

About 11 years ago, when the Saint and I moved into this house, I did a foolish thing. This will not surprise anyone who knows me. I was in the kitchen with the loaded dishwasher open, bottom rack pulled out. I was arranging some decorative items in the space above the upper cabinets. While standing on a swiveling bar stool. Wearing socks. Gosh, what could possibly go wrong???
Predictably to anyone with two brain cells, I fell and my hand collided with the silverware tray in the dishwasher.
(My friend Dr. Doctor, upon hearing this story, just rolled her eyes and laughed. Thank goodness she wasn't in the ER that night. She would have made me stitch myself up on the grounds that I should know better.)
I stood up to find blood pouring down my arm and dripping from my elbow. I screamed like the completely calm and non-hysterical person I am and brought the Saint running down the stairs. We both assumed I had landed on a knife. He called 911 and said..."My wife stabbed herself. It was an accident." To which I am sure the 911 operator said "Yeah right, buddy."
No surprise, the police arrived first. The ambulance guys waiting down the street told our brand new neighbors that they couldn't come up to the house until the cops had "secured the scene". Nice.
Of course, by the time the cops arrived, I had stopped gushing blood and calmed down enough to laugh at my own stupidity. The female officer there to help me with what the police thought was a domestic situation failed to see the humor in the situation. She was not amused.
After the police decided I wasn't in imminent danger from a crazed husband, the Saint took me to the hospital where I got several lovely stitches in the middle of my left hand. It turned out I had landed on the corner of the silverware tray and not a knife. Dr. Doctor helpfully pointed out later that a knife probably would have gone all the way through my hand. Ouch!