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.