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.
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.
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