we shall not cease from exploration: Battlewound Galactica

(Sound of knocking on wood)

I was a remarkably injury-free child.

At Disney World when I was Eight, I vividly remember feeling thirsty in a darkly-lit (and decorated) high rise hotel that smelled like chlorine. One of my parents poured a delicious Sprite into a long hotel-room glass. I took the glass, a sip, and then the glass fell and broke on the floor. A shard must have brushed over my left foot and landed elsewhere, for there was now a laceration about a centimeter long on my left big toe. It didn't bleed or hurt very much, and we put a band-aid on my toe and that was that.

The scar is still there. I have always found a fascination in watching the precise migration of this scar from the big left toe to about three inches in towards the ankle, as my foot has grown. Actually, the scar probably hasn't moved. The skin has probably stretched.

While they generally sheltered me obsessively from harm, watched me at all times, and made me eat asparagus and eggplant casserole, there were certain things my parents just didn't think about doing. I never drank milk from a carton. My mother mixed evaporated dry milk into some water and that's what I put on my cereal. Orange Juice? Nope. Bread? Sort-of. Thinly-sliced Pepperidge Farm Whole Wheat full of all sorts of fiber surprises was always on either side of my bologna and mayo. (Okay - the bread was healthy, I just got carried away with how weird my parents are.) They hardly ever let me stay home from school when I was sick unless I was throwing up, and they never thought taking me to the Emergency Room.

Scar #2 is on my right knee. I skinned my knee when I was 12 at a youth group car wash fundraiser at church. They didn't take me to the ER either. That wound scarred.

Scar #3 is about 8 inches long. It runs from the under left side of my left arm below the elbow down towards the wrist. I was 25 when this happened. My white shepherd/lab mix objected to being bathed and fought me with his fierce puppy-dog claws as I forced him into the bath. Since it didn't hurt and didn't bleed like crazy and since I'd never been to the ER before, I didn't even think about going.

Yesterday evening, I stayed at work 15 minutes late to help set up a dinner meeting. The thick glass front door of my office automatically locks at 6pm. As I was leaving, I pushed the red button to temporarily unlock the door and I grabbed the handle to open the door towards me. I'm still confused about what happened next. Stephanie, the receptionist, says that she saw the door kinda stick, then it opened, THEN it hit me in the face and busted open my forehead. I'll take her word for it.

Stephanie rushed to me and said, "Come with me! That's going to bleed! I know what I'm talking about, I used to work in a doctor's office!!"

I really didn't know what she was talking about because I was laughing about how funny it was that I hit my head on the door. Then I put my hand on my forehead and that's when I felt an opening, and when I pulled my hand away, it was covered in blood.

Stephanie rushed me to the ladies room (avoiding the fancy executives in the dinner meeting) and we looked at the wound. It was deep. After several people gave us 2nd opinions, we decided that I should go . . .

TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!!!!

YAY!!!

Maura packed me a bag full of snacks. Stephanie accompanied me to Lenox Hill Hospital and hung out until Mat arrived. The boss's driver Charles got us safely there in the brand new Escalade.

And after 3 hours and a delightful conversation with my new pall Ms. Henderson (while she ate Little Debbie Devil Dogs and some of my snacks) in the waiting room about her adventures living on the Staten Island Ferry and her knowledge of medical procedures, Science Fiction, and Jesus . . .

I got my first stitches!!

I got 6 of em!!

If anyone is wondering what happened to Peter Faulk (aka Columbo), he's working as the on-call plastic surgeon at Lenox Hill Hospital in NYC.