Career Options

Over the weekend, Joey and I discovered that I could be a part-time truck driver. You see, we moved 15 minutes away. This required us to rent a moving truck, a 20 footer.

I had a great time driving that baby. The reason for this is I used to drive a mini bus. And not just any mini bus, an obnoxiously splatter painted with hand prints bus, filled with children.

This is the bus I drove all over Southwest Virginia - 

Now, I know what you are thinking. You're thinking, "that's a pretty sweet minibus. I wish I could ride something that cool." I know. 

Imagine you, being all lame, walking on the sidewalk, then something pulls up next to you. You look up to see a smorgasbord of color, blues, yellows, reds, greens. You look through the door to see the driver and kids, ages six to twelve years old rocking out.  This thing had up pretty sweet surround sound. This occurred twice a day, five days a week for an entire school year.

One time as I drove to pick up one of my kids from their school and bring them to day care, I came across an odd sight in the road. No, it wasn't a chicken! It was a turtle shell. It was in the middle of the road and I didn't want to risk running it over. What if I squished a turtle? 

So, I looked behind me and checked to make sure there weren't any cars behind me. I then, stopped the bus, in the dead center of the road, a few feet behind the turtle shell. I walked up to the turtle shell and out popped a turtle! I named him Pablo. 

A woman in her seventies came rushing out of a worn down building. She shuffled forward, wagging her finger in the air. "Is that turtle back again? If I've told him once, I've told him a million times, don't walk across the street!" 

This woman seemed VERY familiar with this turtle. The clearly had a history. We stood over the turtle as she peered down, disappointed by the turtle's decision to again cross the road. While she listed the different times she moved this turtle, I decided to name him. 

"Pablo. Your name will be Pablo" I thought. "Hm, where is Pablo's family?" I wondered. "Pablo, where is your family?" I asked aloud. The turtle looked at me, the woman continued talking about how she picked him up here and moved him all the way over there. A lot of hand gestures went along with this. Approximately every 20 seconds, I nodded in agreement with whatever she was saying. Sometimes I would catch pieces of it, along the lines of "there used to be water here, but it's gone" and "why doesn't he get it? I told him to find a pond." I wasn't sure how to explain that Pablo didn't comprehend English or any other language for that matter. He only spoke turtle, unlike Lila, who I am convinced understands me sometimes. 

I picked up Pablo and decided I would bring him to Duck Pond, a popular pond at Virginia Tech. There he could spend his days lounging on rocks, swimming in deep waters, and not being run over. 

"Where you takin' the turtle?" The woman asked. 

"To a nice pond, far away from any dangerous roads." With that, I scooped up Pablo and we headed back to the bus. 

As I climbed onto the bus, I realized a snafu in my plan. There was a point to driving the minibus around town, it was to pick up children from their schools and take them back to daycare.

I was supposed to pick up a 6 year old girl at 3:10pm. It was currently 3:00pm. There was no way I could make it to the pond and drop Pablo off before that. I couldn't take the girl on a random field trip, or could I? 

I called up the day center and quickly rambled the details of Pablo. It went along the lines of, "found turtle, need Hailey's mom's phone number, setting Pablo free at Duck Pond, spontaneous field trip - it's a thing. It is SO a thing. Well, I just made it a thing."

I called the little girl's mom at work and explained that her daughter was fine and she needn't be worried. I just wanted to take her to a pond to free a turtle and we would be a little late to day care. The mom, confused, agreed after I promised her daughter's safety and well-being would not be jeopardized. 

Now, I had to drive the bus and pick up the little girl. BUT what about Pablo? If I put him on a seat on the bus, he would fall off or climb off. What if he fell and cracked his shell open? I couldn't sew his shell shut. He couldn't be buckled into the seat. I would have to hold him on my lap while driving*. 

*DON'T EVER DO THAT. EVER.

I did just that, carefully driving to the little girl's school. I was 10 minutes late and she was standing there crying, being comforted by a teacher. I pulled up and opened the door. I didn't even get the chance to apologize because the moment she saw the turtle, her disgruntled demeanor disappeared. 

"I want to hold it!" She shouted with glee. 

Now, I have always been taught to use manners and expect nothing less from your average 6 year old. 

"Let's try that again," I said. 

"May I please hold that?" 

"This is Pablo, the turtle. He is scared right now, but once we get to the pond, I will let you set him free."

"Ok." She sat down and patiently waited as we drove to the pond.

"Wait, the pond?" She asked as we arrived. "This isn't daycare." 

"I know, I called your mom and she said it was alright for me to bring you to the pond to release Pablo." 

We released Pablo into Duckpond. Wait, this was not at all the story I intended to tell. I meant to tell you all about my time moving to the new apartment and driving the truck. 

I wanted to tell you about my mom coming to help and then driving off with a car full of stuff and Lila in the opposite direction of my new apartment (not the first time she got lost that day, even with the GPS). I planned on telling you about Lila frantically barking in my mom's car as she watched me drive the truck off in the proper direction, drinking endless Dunkin Donuts Hot Chocolate to get me through the move, and my new neighbors confusion over the word base and bass, but no, I got distracted - as I do. 

Point of the Story: Well, it was supposed to be that I am currently living out of cardboard boxes and can't find the forks. We unpacked the spoons and knives, but somehow the forks are nowhere to be found. Also, the contents of my fridge are: eggs, pasta sauce, and maple syrup from Maine. It is the most amazing syrup ever. I love it. It makes pancakes and waffles EVEN BETTER. It's so good, that I bought it in Maine, bubble wrapped it, and had it shipped home. Oh my goodness, so good. I want pancakes right now, but I don't have pancake mix, or a spatula, or the griddle, or plates. Where are our plates? Wait, where are our plates? I definitely packed them. Oh, they may be in my car underneath the crab costume. That's possible.

Therefore, the point of the story is: go with the flow, even if the flow includes driving a colorful miniature bus to a pond to set free a confused little creature. Also, have you seen my plates? Or forks? Maybe my forks are with my plates.  

Summer Adventures - The Tree

In June, Lila and I were walking through the woods. We approached a newly fallen tree. In that moment, I thought, “I could chop that in half.” Yes, I had once again inadvertently challenged myself to a seemingly pointless endeavor.

I needed to procure an ax. Home Depot seemed like a great place for that.

I drove to Home Depot excited for my axe purchase. I entered Home Depot with big eyes, looking for a sign to point me towards axes. I walked around and inadvertently walked right past the axes. After completing a full lap around the store, I resigned to the fact that I was completely unaware as to which grouping axes belonged. An ax didn't fit in Gardening, Power Tools, Paint although I did spend some time just looking at all of the different paint chips for no other reason besides, “oohh pretty colors.” Nor did an ax fit into Lighting and Ceiling Fans, Flooring, Kitchen and Bath, Cleaning Supplies, Lumber and Building Materials, and Hardware.

I found a man in a bright orange apron and he pointed me to the very left end of the store. I walked over to the aisle and found that axes come in many different sizes and styles. If you go to HomeDepot.com and type axe in the search bar, over 50 different types of axes will appear along with this guy --

That’s right, because I go to Home Depot solely for their garden statues of anthropomorphic amphibians with a passion for fighting fires.  

Slightly overwhelmed, I picked up an ax and read the attached tag. It’s Rock Forge Premium Log Splitter with Fiberglass Handle. Clearly this ax is for PREMIUM logs. I imagine logs from only the finest of trees being split by this fiberglass handled beauty. Trees are just really big logs. However, I think they mean firewood. This tree is definitely bigger than your average firewood log. Let’s move on. I am holding the ax as two men walk past me, no, they didn’t just casually walk past me, let’s discuss what they did.

At first, the two men were far down the aisle, carrying on a normal conversation. They headed my way, unaware of me. But, as they came closer, the sight they witnessed boggled their minds. I imagine their thoughts were along the lines of: “What is a 25 year old woman in stylish navy pants, paired with a green, blue, white, and purple floral print tank top covered by a deep purple cardigan, with sensible silver metallic flats, doing with an ax? Why does she look so intense? What is she going to do?” Their walk slowed as their conversation came to a stand-still. I could feel their heavy stares and endless internal questions burning a hole through my back. I looked up and smiled brightly, making direct eye contact. I can’t even begin to imagine the awkwardness the men felt as we silently smiled at one another. After a solid 5 seconds of smiling, the men snapped back to life and continued down the aisle. 

Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 2. 

I put down the PREMIUM log splitter and picked up the Ludell 4lb. Log Splitter with 34 in. INDESTRUCTIBLE Fiberglass Handle. Ooooh, INDESTRUCTIBLE you say? I knew I needed something other than a log splitter, but the promise of indestructible was very tempting. To know that no matter what I did, I wasn't going to manage to destroy the ax brought me comfort. However, I knew I couldn't buy it. A log splitter wasn't up to the task of chopping the tree in half.

I ultimately went with a single-bit ax with a fiberglass handle that weighed 5.26 lbs. I could easily swing the ax and the grip was comfortable. I had my ax.

As I made my way to the check-out counter, I remembered that Joey and I were running low on bathroom cleaner. I have been very successful with a bleach foam cleaner and went and grabbed it in the cleaning section of Home Depot.

Right before arriving at the checkout counter, I noticed duct tape. Joey had just mentioned that he needed duct tape. I grabbed a roll and placed my three items on the belt. As I stood there, looking at my items, duct tape, an ax, and bleach foam cleaner. Oh no. I look like Dexter.

I needed to grab another item, but it was too late. I watched as the checkout woman’s face turned pale as she put the pieces together in her head. She looked at me carefully, trying to memorize my every detail as she believed I would most likely end up on the nightly news in handcuffs. She would be a witness, her eye-witness account would be crucial.

I knew what she was thinking and part of me wanted to explain that the three items I purchased were not linked, nor was I planning on causing any harm to anyone. However, I decided it was better to say nothing. I’m sure it livened up her day. Plus, now she had a great story to share with her other cash register counterparts.

Number of people concerned about my possession of an ax: 3.

I checked out and loaded up the items in my car. I returned home, unloaded the items, and turned around with my axe in tow. I brought Lila with me into the woods. She was thrilled as the woods is one of her most favorite places. It has smells, animals, sticks, mud, and animal poop. Oh yes, the woods is a wonderland for Lila.

Lila is a naturally timid dog. She disliked the ax from first sight. I let her sniff it, but she had already decided she didn’t like it. This kept Lila a safe distance away from me whilst I chopped the tree. She instead found puddles filled with frogs. Lila LOVES frogs. She loves that they hop. If she sees a frog that isn't hopping, she will take her nose, put it under the frog’s bottom, and quickly lift her nose up, sending the frog through the air. Essentially, she forces the frog to hop. Poor frogs.

While Lila focused on her new froggy friends, I approached the tree. I surveyed it from all angles, and concluded that yes, this was, in fact, a tree. Seriously, what was I looking for? Maybe I was looking to see if an animal had made a home there or where to start chopping.

I took a solid stance, planting my feet firmly in the ground and swung the axe with all of my might. Pieces of bark went flying through the air. I liked this. I continued until I was out of breath, heart racing, sweat dripping down my face. I inhaled deeply, looked around for Lila who was surveying a ground hog hole. I wiped off the sweat, and continued. My mind had the chance to wander as the metal penetrated the log. An hour passed. My hands were raw, blisters formed and I decided to call it a day.

I called for Lila, who had now ventured partially INTO the groundhog hole. All I could see was her tail sticking out, furiously wagging. I shook my head, knowing the groundhogs had many exits out of their homes and were most likely in a completely different area of the woods. I once again called Lila’s name. She wiggled herself out of the hole. Covered in dirt, Lila walked over to me, proud of the day’s excursion. Her tongue hung out and the corners of her mouth turned up gave the impression of her smiling. Lila was having a fantastic day.

We walked out of the woods towards the apartment parking lot. Knowing that I didn't have a suitable place in the apartment for the ax, I instead put it in my car’s trunk.

I examined my throbbing, blistered hands. If I was going to chop this tree again, which I most definitely was, I would have to get gloves. While showering that evening, one of the blisters popped open. I bandaged the open wound and realized that I must limit tree chopping to once every few days.

Lila and I continued our tree chopping adventures once every few days for seven weeks. At one point, after a chopping session, I emerged from the woods, only to be greeted by an older resident of the apartment complex.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now” he said.

Number of people concerned by my possession of an axe and my actions: 5 (Joey also mentioned his concern over my new hobby.)

“Have you?” I asked, slighty perturbed  by his bold revelation.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?” Had this man just responded to my question by ignoring it and instead asking a different question? 

“Why are you chopping that tree? You aren't clearing the path for the ATVs, are you? They are so loud. They are such a nuisance.”

“Oh, no, I’m just chopping the tree in half.”

“Oh.” The man turned away, confused by the answer given.

Great, I had now secured the role of “The Crazy Resident.” This man would undoubtedly tell all of his neighbors about his bizarre encounters with me. The Crazy Resident is the one who walks down the halls and people lock their doors, whispers follow the resident, people go out of their way to avoid this person. I really didn’t want to be this resident. Yet, my goal remained unfulfilled. I would continue chopping the tree in half.

One night, while out walking Lila, I ran into some neighborhood friends. 

"What have you been up to during summer break?" asked one of them. 

I paused, deciding whether or not I should inform them of my hobby. For some reason, the majority of people saw my hobby as odd or unusual. Being one to indulge all details of my life to others, I decided to share my actions. 

"I've been chopping up a fallen tree in the woods." 

"No, you haven't."

"I have. Want to go see it?"

"Yes."

They followed me into the woods and I showed them my tree. 

"Rachel, this is impressive." 

"Thank you. I still have a lot to do."

We walked back from the woods. As we passed my car, I pointed to my trunk, that's where I keep my ax. I opened my trunk and showed it to my neighbors.

"Wait," one said as I pulled the ax out of my car. "Your ax is unsheathed?" 

"I don't have a cover. I don't know where to get a cover, so yeah, I leave it unsheathed."

"Do you know how sketchy that looks?"

Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 7 (my two neighbors).

That evening, I took a picture of my tree progress and text it to my mom and sisters. I immediately received three phone calls, one from my mom, and one from each of my sisters, which took the total of Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 10.

My mom at first tried to talk me of my new activity, but ultimately accepted it as another one of my many quirks. I promised her to only chop the tree when wearing: a. gloves b. back brace c. sneakers d. sunscreen e. a t-shirt. This would ensure I didn't get severely sun-burned or throw out my back. 

I continued chopping up the tree while meeting all of my mom's constraints. When I finally reached the center of the tree and split it into two giant logs resulting in:

I did it! Also, there's Lila

The tree had a 60 in circumference. (Props to Bridget for finding my mistake as I originally wrote it was a 60 in diameter. Nope! Definitely not that big.) I took this picture while standing on top of the tree.

Point of the Story: I love accomplishing different things every summer. The summer previous to this, I went white water rafting once a week. The year before, I hiked Machu Picchu.  So in comparison, this may seem smaller, I'm still really proud. ALSO, I still have all of my limbs! My mom is very proud of the fact that I managed to accomplish this without injury. 

The Final (Hopefully) Traumatic Head Incident

I have had the misfortune of always having the smallest dorm room on the floor. I don’t know how it happened, but year after year, I ended up in the tiny room, the room where we couldn’t un-bunk our beds due to lack of space. It was miserable.

As someone who loves to be cold at night, I had to sleep on the bottom bunk. The top bunk is equivalent to being suffocated by a hoodie with the hood tied shut. At night, I must have the fan on, circulating air. It drives Joey crazy, but to his credit, he puts up with the fan, plus I went out and bought him an extra comforter to keep him warm – I call that even.

Hm, I just realized that none of that last paragraph actually pertains to the story. Well, now it’s just something else you know about me!

Anyway, my cramped dorm room contained one small, hidden window. It let in a fraction of the light compared to the other dorm rooms, but being someone who needs sunlight, I loved the window open.

My roommate, however, did not embrace sunlight as I did. As a future computer engineer, she enjoyed her time inside, facing a dimly lit computer, coding away through endless hours of the night. I on the other hand will sit outside at any opportunity and will open every window when the weather is nice.

This disagreement caused minor tension, which I learned could quickly be relieved if I closed the window.  The problem was that in order to reach the window, you would have to climb through the bottom bunk and maneuver yourself through the wooden slates, stretching out far enough to reach the handles.

Let’s draw you a diagram!

Ok, so you clearly see the giant metal bar that whose sole purpose was to inconvenience me.

One day, my roommate came back from some random location. She walked in and immediately asked me to close the window, eliminating all fresh air. Dorms are gross. You get that many college aged kids living together and it’s bound to smell, no matter how clean you keep your room. It’s just a fact of life.

I obliged, climbing my bed, avoiding the obnoxious metal bar and wiggling my arms through the metal slats. I closed the window. Pleased with myself, I sat upwards, with full force, full force right into the metal bar. I fell face down onto my bed and just laid there. My roommate had wandered off to say hi to someone.

 Very familiar with this pain, I had bumped my head on the EXACT SAME spot as the previous two incidences. I gently put a finger on the spot radiating the most pain. I pulled my finger away and brought it to my face -  red.  Yes, once again, I had cracked open my head in the same spot and would need to go to the hospital.

Now, I was still face down on my bed, motionless when my roommate returned. “Rachel?” she asked, trying to surmise what just occurred. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah” I responded brightly. By this point, I had become so accustom to my accidental self-inflicted pain that I wasn’t particularly fazed. “I just cracked my head open.” I told her matter of factly. “I am going to call an ambulance and go to the hospital.”

“Oh…” her voice wandered off, confused at my calmness.

“I am going to stand up now. Will you please call the ambulance for me?” and without giving her a moment to respond, I stood up, walked over to the bathroom, got a paper towel, put it on the back of my head, and walked through the dorm as if it were any other day.

On my way back to my dorm room, I called for an ambulance. As I explained to the 911 operator the issue with my skull and giant split down the back of it, I walked past my friend’s room. I forgot that we were supposed to go swimming in an hour. I decided I should probably let her know that I wasn’t going to be able to join.

I walked in, left hand still bracing the paper towel against my head, “I’m really sorry, I want to go swimming with you, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to  as I just cracked my head open and an ambulance is on its way to take me to the hospital. BUT, if we could schedule another time to go, that would be great!”

“You what?” the girls leapt out of their seats, racing towards my damaged skull. The frenzy died down and I returned to my room to wait.

The paramedics rushed in. I noticed they looked a lot closer to my age than any other paramedics I had met before. They explained they were Virginia Tech’s Student Paramedics. 

Fantastic, a bunch of overly excited students were taking me to the hospital.

The lead paramedic asked, “any back or neck injuries?” I responded, “well, I was born without my L5 disc in my back.” WRONG answer.

“A back injury!” they exclaimed with glee “we MUST backboard you.” Oh no.

“I’m really ok. I’ve been walking around and everything,” I replied not wanting to deal with the process of being back boarded.

“You are probably in shock. You could be injuring yourself even more. We MUST backboard you.” Not wanting to argue with the paramedics, I agreed.

The paramedics attempted to bring in the backboard, but with 4 people in the room, it wouldn’t fit. I told you my dorm room was small.)  Everyone except for myself and one paramedic had to leave the room. Then he put the backboard on the ground and told me to lie on top of it. The other paramedics rushed back into the room, strapping all straps, buckling multiple buckles, tightening the brace. I was boarded, but it really felt like I was trapped. 

Me, trapped on a backboard

After the backboarding was completed, the paramedics lifted me up and carried me down the hall. What they didn’t know was my dorm was called The Slusher Wing because it never ended. It was like a giant wing, and was longer than a football field (I did the math.) I was slid out of the room and the four paramedics took their spots. Two were on each side of my body prepared to carry me down the never-ending hallways. They lifted me and we began. With every step they took, a jolt of pain surged through my skull.

We finally reached the elevator. The back board included a neck brace, making me unable to move my head left or right. All I could do was look straight up. The only reason I knew we made it to the elevator was the notification by a paramedic who I will label as Paramedic 2.  

“Finally,” he said, “the elevator.” I heard the door open and I was shuffled into the elevator.

I waited to hear the elevator door shut, but the sound never came. “Um, we have a problem,” announced Paramedic 2. That’s right, the backboard was too long. It didn’t fit in the elevator. That left one solution, THE STAIRS! Sure, I was only on the fourth floor, but stairwells are tricky. They have many turns, many turns that the back board would have to take, plus I would be on a downward slant the entire time. With no other option, we began our trek down the four flights of stairs.

 “We’ve never had to do this before,” divulged Paramedic 2.

“Well that’s reassuring,” I replied, wishing I had taken the bus to the hospital instead. 

“This stairwell is too narrow. We can’t fit on the sides” Paramedic 2 was quickly becoming my least favorite person.

Paramedic 1 positioned himself at the foot of the backboard and my favorite, Paramedic 2, positioned himself at the head.

They lifted me and we began our treacherous hike down the staircase. As we descended, the backboard maintained a 30 degree angle. I was petrified that I would slide off of the backboard and fall down the remainder of the stairs. I held on tight as we went through twists and turns. We finally reached the exit and I breathed a sigh of relief as I was loaded into the ambulance.

By this point, I was feeling light-headed. The paramedics drilled me with questions, such as name, age, birth date. They asked, “Social security number?” and without thinking, I listed off some numbers. I closed my eyes, wanting to fall asleep, but just as I drifted off, I jolted awake, my eyes widened.

“I think I just gave you my bank account number” I announced. “Can you repeat the numbers back to me?”

The paramedic read them off the paper. I recognized the numbers and realized that I had just accidentally given four complete strangers access to my bank account. They knew my full name, home address, birth date, and now my bank account number.

“Yep, that’s my bank account” I said.

“You know your bank account number by heart?” They asked, perplexed by my ability to remember an important sequence of numbers.  

“Yeah, I know my credit card number too,” I paused, “but I’m not giving that to you.”

The paramedics laughed. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was wheeled right in to the ER. This time the doctor explained that he would staple my head shut.

WOAH NOW! I am not breaking with tradition. I need stitches in my head and they must be BLUE.

I interrupted the doctor to ask for stitches, specifically blue ones. The doctor was confused by my request, but after hearing how I recited my bank account number instead of my social security number, he knew he was dealing with an odd patient.

The doctor obliged. And yet again, I had blue stitches in my head.

Point of the Story: If I ever crack my head open again and am unconscious when the doctor goes to fix my head, let them know I need blue stitches in my head. 

Head Trauma - Part Deux (that means two)

At the age of 7 years old, my energy levels were off the charts. I climbed things, many things, and after I climbed them, I would jump down. Climbing and jumping were as essential to me as walking. Side note: They still are – although, less jumping unless on a trampoline or jumping from a reasonable height.

My parents’ master bathroom includes a Jacuzzi tub. To seven year old me, this tub was huge, as I’ve gotten older, the tub is still really big, but I am not able to swim around in it like a goldfish as I did when I was younger.  In order to get into the tub, you have to climb three tiled stairs to get into the tub.  Bath time at our house was awesome. All three sisters could fit in the tub, the jets would make a ridiculous amount of bubbles, and we had more bath toys in the Jacuzzi than reasonable. I loved taking baths. It was like a mini pool. The water filled up to my neck and I would swim around the tub like a goldfish in a bowl. Also, I am currently at my family home and my sister has a peplum shirt. I have spent the past year pronouncing that word as “pew –plum,” and she has just informed me that it is “pay–plum,” now I know.  I am aware that is completely off topic, but it just came up and I wanted to share with you my new knowledge. Back to the story.

At the end of my bath, I would climb out of the tub, down the three tiled stairs, grab a towel and dry off which in reality was grab a towel, run to my bedroom using my towel as a cape as if I was a superhero. Due to this towel cape running, my dad also bought me a bathrobe made out of the same fabric as a towel. This eliminated the super hero towel running.

At the bottom of the three stairs laid a bath mat. It has been many different mats over time. However, during this particular month, my family had purchased a new mat; I am guessing my dad bought the mat. It was foam and in the shape of a giant foot. I LOVED it. I don’t even know why. It was just fantastic.

On one particular occasion, I finished my bath and made my way out of the tub. I climbed out of the tub, standing on the top stair. I looked down to see the giant foot mat just lying there, tempting me. “If I jumped, I could totally land on that mat,” I thought to myself. 

The problem with me is that like Barney Stinson, if I issue a challenge to myself, I instantly accept it. I have been working on not instantly accepting all challenges as sometimes they prove too dangerous or are silly challenges. One time I challenged myself to hold my left arm in the air for an hour without taking it down. No one issued this challenge. No one had any idea why I held my arm in the air for 60 minutes, but I did it. I walked around my house with my left arm in the air. Interestingly enough, no one in my family questioned my bizarre actions. I think by that point in my life they were used to me doing weird actions and decided it was best to not ask.  

I accepted my own challenge and readied myself, positioning to jump and lunge forward. If I pushed off hard enough, I would it make on the mat. I felt nervous, but didn’t want to chicken out on this pointless challenge. I counted to three and jumped.

To my pleasant surprise, my feet made contact with the mat. Go me. However,  I was unable to celebrate my victory as the moment my feet applied pressure on the mat, the mat slipped. My tiny seven year old body flew through the air. Gravity pulled me back and I crashed head first onto the tiled floor. Stupid gravity. 

The overwhelming realization of pain in the back of my head resulted in the one highest pitched, most painful screams of my life. I let out another long, high-trilled shriek, hoping one of my parents would hear it and come save me. Yet, no one came.  At the end of the shriek, I stopped crying and instead laid there, thinking, “No one is coming. I am just going to lay here and no one will ever find me.” It felt like forever until my dad burst through the door. I later learned only 10 seconds past from the first cry to my dad barging through the door, but when you’re in pain, every second feel likes an hour. 

As my dad was not only an ER nurse, but a paramedic as well, he was used to traumatic scenes. He looked me over, checking for head and neck injuries, along with any signs of paralysis. Luckily, there weren’t any signs. However, the tile behind my head turned red with blood. My mom rushed in to see me on the ground. My dad looked up at her and said I would need to get a CAT scan since I hit my head on such a hard surface. I didn’t know what a CAT scan was, I imagined it was something like an X-ray. I thought that was cool. 7 Year Old Thoughts: Will I have to hold a cat? How can a cat help me with my injuries? I like cats. Will this cat be in charge of the scan? No, that’s silly. Cats don’t work machines, they don't have thumbs. Do cats have thumbs? I have two thumbs. I like cats. I like dogs. I want a pet. 

My dad grabbed a giant towel, wrapped me up and swept me off the ground. My mom and dad placed me on their bed as they struggled to dress me without hurting my head. This time the pain was more intense than the last head injury. My dad grabbed the phone and called the hospital. He called one of his doctor friends, explaining the situation. The doctor agreed to have a room waiting for me, along with preparing a CAT scan to check for brain injuries.

My parents placed me in the car. My dad put a towel against the back of my head. This time, I was old enough to reason that the towel was probably there to stop the blood, meaning I had once again cracked my head open. I wasn’t too worried about that. I was instead focused on what a CAT scan involved. 7 Year Old Thoughts: Would I have to hold a cat? How could a cat help me with my injuries? Would this cat be in charge of the scan? No, that’s silly. Cats don’t work machines.

In the car, my dad told me I cracked my head open in the same EXACT place the first time. Fantastic!

As I once again arrived at the hospital, I was rushed past the ER waiting lounge, straight back to a room. Rather than stitch up my head, I first received a CAT or CT scan. Unfortunately, this scan contained exactly ZERO CATS. CT stands for Computerized Axial Tomography, or in plain terms, not a cute animal that says “MEOW!”

The scan showed that my brain was still functioning properly. However, years down the road, doctors would later contemplate the possibility that cracking my head open in the same place 3 times (the third time would come years later) has caused my quirks.

After the CT scan, I was sent to have my head stitched up. They asked why I jumped off the stairs, explaining the entire scenario of trying to land on the giant foot mat. I gave a simple response, “I thought I could fly.” Now, I was very aware that I couldn’t fly and if I wanted to try to fly, I would choose somewhere with a soft landing – duh. Although, I really do wish I could fly. That would be AMAZING!

The nurses were amused by this answer, laughing about the adorableness of a 7 year old trying to fly. I was asked if I wanted blue stitches or black stitches. Not wanting to break with tradition, I chose blue stitches.

Final Note: This incident started the love of the color, blue. I’ve always loved green, but blue holds a special place in my heart – and my head.