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Saturday, October 26, 2013

Head Trauma: Part I

This is the first of a three part series detailing the three times I have cracked my head open. Please note, I have no intention of turning this blog into the chronicles of my life injuries. It just turns out that some of my bigger adventures resulted in injuries or stemmed from injuries.


I have cracked my head open on three separate occasions. The first time, I was five years old.


 I was in kindergarten. One of the other student’s dad was visiting. The dad spent his time playing around with us. As he did, a bunch of us tiny ones devised what we saw as an ingenious plan. Parents, dads especially are the strongest things on Earth. Fact.  They can lift anything without the slightest difficulty. What a great idea it would be if we all got on his back for a giant piggy ride. Dumb.


The dad handled one child on his back easily, jumping around and laughing. Another student climbed on his back. Now two children was less comfortable, but still easy enough to manage. Around the room they paraded. A third student climbed on. This slowed down the dad. I didn’t notice as in my mind, carrying three children was the equivalent of being Superman. Clearly, Superman wouldn’t mind if I joined the giant piggy back ride. I grabbed on to the third kid attached to his back and latched on. Mistake. The weight of all four of us caused the dad to stumble backwards. The dad tripped, losing his balance. We all fell backwards, right into a bookshelf. My head smashed against the corner of the bookshelf. Time froze for me. It followed with the realization that I was in pain, a LOT of pain.


Cue the screaming – I began screaming in pain, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know how to make the pain stop. Other students, startled by my cries began screaming, and quickly screams turned into crying.  The dad recovered from his fall and ran over to me.  He said “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” However, his words were muted by the cries of young children. Louder and louder he cried out, “I’m so sorry!”


At this point, my kindergarten teacher swooped in, restoring order. She held me as I sobbed on her shoulder. I asked her to look at my head. It is a fact that an adult looking at your injury validated that you were in fact injured. It didn’t count until an adult said you were hurt. This still seems to be true for really small children. A toddler will hit their head and wait a moment. THIS IS THE CRUCIAL MOMENT. This moment decides whether the child is going to burst out in tears, complete with snot running from their nose OR get up and go to the slide or an equally enjoyable playground activity.


During that very moment, that initial pausing moment, you as an authoritative big person must smile your biggest smile, and in a sing-songy voice announce, “You’re okay.” Then nod affirming that the child is in fact okay.


At that point, the child will look around confused, thinking, “This hurts, but the big person says I’m okay.  –Thinks for a moment – I must be okay! Alright then, to the slide or another equally enjoyable playground activity” They will then get up and run off without a care in the world.


My kindergarten teacher looked at my head. Her complexion turned ghostly pale.  
At this point, I was unaware of the gravity of my situation. No one informed me that my skull, once a singular solid piece, now possessed a deep crack from which blood flowed free. I just thought, “Wow! I must have a really big bump on my head.” My kindergarten teacher put a wet paper towel on the bump that had formed on my head. Little did I know, her reason for applying pressure to the back of my head wasn’t intended to make the bump go away as I assumed, but instead to stop the bleeding.


My kindergarten teacher looked to the visiting dad, saying something quietly. I couldn’t decipher what she said. I am guessing she told him to watch the other students while she and I went to the office because that is exactly what happened.


As we walked to the office, my teacher asked how my head felt. I responded that the pain was going away. She held the paper towel to the back of my head as we walked which made walking slightly challenging. “Can you stop pressing my head?” I asked. She said no, but offered no explanation as to why she wouldn’t comply with what I saw as a reasonable request.


Finally, we made it to the office.  Adults flocked to my site, ushering me to a chair. The gym teacher put an ice pack on my head. People asked how I was, assured me that my mom would be here soon. “Why is my mom coming? It doesn't even hurt that much, why are they making such a fuss?” I thought to myself. That thought was interrupted as standing in front of me was THE PRINCIPAL.  The principal was a celebrity to 5 year old me. He was the most famous person I had ever met. I was star struck. He asked how I felt. I couldn't look him in the eye. He was too famous. This was THE PRINCIPAL. “Fine” I whispered, staring down at the ground. This was the coolest moment of my 5 year old life. “Feel better, Rachel. Your mom will be here soon.” he said. “THE PRINCIPAL knows MY NAME? This is AMAZING!” wide eyed, my thoughts raced. To me, the principal knowing my name escalated us to BFF level. I forgot about my head and the little, oh you know – gaping hole, filled with blood. Instead, I couldn’t wait to tell everyone that I knew THE PRINCIPAL.


My mom arrived. I excitedly announced that I had a new BFF, the PRINCIPAL. My mom, in slightly panicked state looked at my head, ignoring the comment about my new found friendship. She then announced we were on our way to the hospital. “WHAT? It’s a bump. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” That’s when my mom dropped a huge dose of reality on me. “Rachel, your head is cracked open,” Mom told me.  “Oh,” I said calmly as I reflected on the concept of having an open head. It’s funny, during really stressful scenarios, I get really really calm, almost creepy calm. I also get quiet, but my thoughts are racing.


Here was the thought process of 5 year old me: My head is open.  Inside your head is your brain. Your brain is pink and squishy. I can touch my brain? I WANT to touch my brain.


That’s it. That’s all I thought, not “oh no, we must stop the bleeding.” Not “ouch.” Not even, “I need to close my head.” Nope, I wanted to touch my brain.


We got to the ER. My dad met us outside the hospital. He rushed us past dozens of people. I felt pretty important as my dad was an ER Nurse and I was visiting him at work. Excited to see him, I exclaimed, “Hi Dad!” His response was a little less enthusiastic and more along the lines of worry.


I was set up in an ER room. My dad’s coworkers came to visit me. I had a lot of visitors during this whole ordeal. They all said how much I looked like my dad. I felt VERY important.


My dad and another man, I’m guessing another ER Nurse, cleaned my head with Iodine. My dad said, “This is going to sting a little bit.” I braced myself.  The Iodine dripped down the sides of my head. A stinging sensation caused me to wince. However, no one prepared me for the worst part, the smell. Iodine and blood mixing makes a pungent odor. As the iodine and blood mixture crept down the sides of my face, I gagged. The smell was worse than the pain. My parents have said I have a really high pain tolerance. I walked on a broken ankle for two weeks before getting an x-ray because I thought it wasn’t that bad.  


After thoroughly cleaning my wound, my dad and I engaged in a conversation about the color of my stitches. It should have taken seconds, but 5 year old me had a tendency to make things a little more complicated than necessary.  

Dad:      Rachel sweetheart, do you want blue or black stitches?
Me:        Do you have rainbow stitches?
Dad:      We don’t have green stitches. We only have blue stitches and black stitches.
Me:        Oh,   – pauses –I like the rainbow.
Dad:      You can choose blue or you can choose black.
Me:        Do you have green stitches?
Dad:      No honey, only blue or black.

I have to give my dad major credit. Here he is, his eldest child sitting in front of him with a cracked skull and blood dripping down her head.  Yet, she is wasting time deciding on a color of no consequence. In a week, the stitches would be cut out of my head, disposed of, never to be seen again.  My dad patiently waited as if my decision of black stitches or blue stitches made even the slightest difference in the healing process.

Me:        Umm…  

This was a big decision. I’m not really sure why I thought this was such a big decision as no one was going to see the stitches, my hair would cover it up. Perhaps it was the knowledge that someone was allowing me to make what five-year old me saw as a life changing decision.  (It wasn’t.)


5 Year Old Me Thoughts:  

I can’t mess this up. Blue or black? I like the RAINBOW! Do they have rainbow stitches? No I like green. I will have green. No green? What type of blue? Can I see the stitches? I like green. I like the RAINBOW! Do they have rainbow stitches? No self, blue or black. Ok, which is more like the rainbow? 

Me:        Ok, blue stitches.

I guess I don’t get to touch my brain. 

Saturday, October 19, 2013

It's Finally Here - The Much Anticipated Blog!

I realized that I will tell one class a story and think I've told every student I teach the story. Then when I go to reference later, three-fourths of my students have no idea what I’m talking about.This has led me here to making a blog. This is where I will post stories I tell to different classes, ensuring we’re all on the same page.

Let’s begin –


The Story of Harry the Chicken (really, a rooster, but we'll get to that)

For our five year anniversary, I wanted to get Joey, my now fiance, back then my boyfriend, a great and different gift. Perusing the internet, I found a katana for sale. A katana is a Japanese Samari Sword. As a kid, Joey as most kids do, played sword fighting with sticks, "how much different could a sword be?" I thought to myself. 

Let's pause right there. This story appears to being going in the direction of severed limbs, accidentally chopping someone's arm off. Don't worry, we're not going anyone near there. Unpause.

This was perfect! The seller was in Pulaski, VA, a 45 minute drive from Virginia Tech. I emailed the seller, we agreed to meet outside a Wendy's. That's a good public location where if it turned out the seller was actually planning to stab me with the katana and then dump me in a ditch, I could instead, run inside the Wendy's, avoid the stabbing, and order a burger. Win-win.


I grabbed Lila, my 30 pound dog, but if my apartment complex asks, she is exactly 24.6 pounds, and not an ounce more, and we headed down to Pulaski. Driving down the highway, our three lanes turned into two lanes, and then into one lane. Driving down the lane, I looked on the shoulder to see a chicken hanging out. "What? Is that a chicken? What's a chicken doing on the side of the road" I said out loud. I then began to laugh because what if the chicken crossed the road? I never imagined that scenario being a real one, but at this very moment, a chicken was possibly about to answer everyone's favorite question. 


I continued driving imagining different reasons for chicken crossing and ultimately decided the chicken would cross if food was on the other side. I reached Wendy's and found the SUV matching the description in the email.

Side note: This is very dangerous to do alone. If you are meeting someone to make a purchase, always go with someone for safety and meet in a very public place. I lucked out and it turned out to be a nice woman, but you never know. 

The woman had explained in the email that the katana just sat around the house, doing absolutely nothing and she decided she'd rather make money off of it. I looked at the katana, not really sure what I was looking for as shockingly I am not a sword expert. The sword was shiny, was pointy, everything you could ever want from a sword.  

I paid the woman and drove back towards Blacksburg. On my way back, who did I run into again? The chicken! Naturally, I stopped to see the chicken. I even took pictures. 


I decided this chicken needed a name. Harriett seemed appropriate. 

As I was taking pictures of Harriett, Lila had her head out of the window of the car watching my movements. She then looked up to see Harriett. Lila had never before seen a creature as this. I imagine Lila's thoughts were along these lines - 

"What is Mom doing? WHAT IS THAT THING? Were those feathers on its body? Why did it walk so funny? I WANT THAT THING! I WILL GET THAT THING!" And with that, she jumped out the window and ran to Harriet. 

As I saw Lila darting full-speed towards the chicken, the sole thought going across my mind was a very calm, "oh no."

The chicken also saw this giant black ball of fur hurling towards it, the chicken began to move in what can best be described as a chicken run. First, its three toes spread apart, its legs lift one at at time, then move forward, followed by its body, yet its head stays back as if it missed the memo from the body that it needs to peace out. 



This is the start of the run, when its toes spread out and it lifts its legs. Off camera is Lila racing towards Harriett. After this picture, I dropped my phone as Harriett, the chicken raced paced me, followed by a thrilled Lila. 

Cars and trucks drove by to possibly the strangest sight they would see that day: me, chasing Lila, chasing the chicken. 

Two women in a van saw this fiasco and stopped to help. Unfortunately this just turned into two women chasing me, chasing Lila, chasing the chicken. 

Trucks honked their horn intrigued by the sight, cars slowed down to process the event. 

Lila caught up to Harriett and rolled her. A giant ball of feathers and dust flew up in the air as Harriett let out a cluck. Luckily, Lila has never been one to bite any animal she has trapped, including multiple squirrels, a groundhog, a bunny rabbit, and countless stray cats. She just wants to chase them, catch them, and stare at them excitedly. I think she also wants them to chase her. They just want to survive. 

Harriet saw the van and slipped under the van, where Lila couldn't reach. I used this opportunity to snatch Lila, put her in the car and close the windows to the point where they were opened just a crack. Lila went nuts running circles in the car. She wanted the feathery thing. 

Now the women were stuck. They couldn't drive off as the chicken had settled under their van. One woman called animal control, perhaps the professionals could handle this. That wasn't a good option in my opinion. 



Instead, I grabbed a sweatshirt and looked under the van. I placed the sweatshirt near the chicken to see if the chicken would attack the sweatshirt. Harriett didn't move. Clearly, Harriett was in a state of shock due to the recent events. 

In a bold and also possibly stupid move, I used the sweatshirt to wrap Harriett up and pulled her gently from underneath the car. 

As I held her in my arms, it dawned on me that this was a rooster, not a chicken. And Harriett turned into Harry. 


The rooster part is pretty obvious in this picture, but in my defense at the time, things were a little bit chaotic. 

Finally, animal control came. I carried Harry over to the Animal Control man. While walking, I didn't see a hole in the ground, and tripped. My ankle rolled, but I clutched tightly on to Harry. I hugged him goodbye as he was placed in a cage. 

A few days later, I called Animal Control. They informed me that Harry was re-homed in Pulaski on a farm. 

...And that is the story of how I broke my ankle. Didn't see that one coming, now did you?