One of the things that happens when you get older is that you discover new ways to hurt yourself. I have been working on this skill for many years and, unfortunately, have not slowed down in my abilities to explain to very patient and kind nurses why I am sitting in the ER patiently waiting for stitches.
At the age of eleven, my father was rebuilding the second-floor deck on our family home, and he had given my mother strict instructions to keep my clumsy body away from his carpentry project and also away from certain death. I was always a naturally inquisitive little boy, and with the physique of a pool noodle, it was easy for me to slip into places I really did not belong. I remember looking through the sliding glass door as my father placed new, long, narrow planks of wood on the deck, nailing each one in with precision and grace. My father had the help of his older brother, Uncle Jim, who shook his hammer at me and said, “You better not come out here yet, not all of the boards are nailed down, you know.”
This was good advice. I certainly did not listen to it, because as soon as my curiosity overwhelmed my little boy-brain, I stepped out to stand next to my father, and in an instant, my foot stepped on a board that was not nailed down. There are old Tom and Jerry cartoons that replay sometimes where Tom, the cat, steps on a rake, which snaps up lightning-fast and bludgeons Tom’s face flat. That deck board smashed my face so violently fast that the only thing that kept me from falling an entire story through the deck was Uncle Jim’s fast hands. I was introduced to the term “goose egg” that morning. My mother was mortified. “I swear, he was right here a second ago,” my mother pleaded.
A few days ago, I was totally unsupervised, alone, and happy as a clam. My wife had reluctantly picked up a midnight shift at the hospital and I had the house to myself. Music was playing at full volume, and I was dancing around the kitchen putting dishes away when I became a little dizzy. I wasn’t concerned about feeling lightheaded for a moment because I am 51 years old and I had been enjoying a refreshing vodka tonic. Yet, in an instant, my feet stepped on top of each other, and I fell straight down to the floor. Luckily, my forehead stopped my fall by smashing into the corner of the refrigerator. I let out a yelp and quickly felt the trickle of blood down the right side of my face. I tried to stand up right away, but found it was a much better idea to lay down and think about my decisions. I could hear my Uncle Jim telling me to knock it off and stay put.
When Jenn came home, she inspected my wound and stated that I needed to go to the hospital. I am not fond of going to the hospital as a patient. I spend the majority of my waking hours at the hospital, working as a manager for the operating room.
There are only two ways to approach the Emergency Room as a patient. You can come up with a fantastic lie as to why you are there, or you can come clean and own up to being an absolute meathead. I decided on the latter and opted for 5 stitches on my forehead. Luckily, my wife is a very loving and forgiving woman, and my head will recover.