Monday, July 22, 2019

Now that I sold my house and I’m no longer living alone I feel safe to tell a few stories. I mean to say that you should feel safe hearing them. I tell these types of stories because I think the truth is almost always worth hearing.

Let me first say that my two biggest fears of falling are 1) bleeding (blood loss), and 2) not being able to get back up. Concussion is a close third.

I’m not sure where to start, I’ve fallen a lot of times in and around my house, alone. In the driveway, in the yard, in the orchard, and in the house. I’ve fallen half in the house and half out, lying face down over the threshold, screen door jammed into the backs of my ankles.That one wasn’t that bad, frustrating, but I didn’t get hurt. I never fell down the stairs, never broke any bones, and somehow always got up or got to my phone when I needed to.

And I never fell down in the snow and froze to death.

I might just start with one story for now.

I had to research the exact date of the following occurrence. On October 25, 2015, the Buffalo Bills and Jacksonville Jaguars played at London’s Wembley Stadium. The game kicked off at 9:30 Eastern and was broadcast on Yahoo. For the casual fan, Londoners included, this wasn’t exactly Brady/Manning, or Cowboys/Giants. It was a game between two longtime loser franchises with no rivalry and records of 3-3 and 1-5. Following the game Buffalo quarterback EJ Manuel, who started for an injured Tyrod Taylor, gave the definitive account of the game, “It was bad football.” Indeed.

I knew it would be, but I put the game on because, hey, when do you get to watch football over breakfast?

But I missed most of the game. I had the Yahoo stream going on my laptop beside a cup of coffee on my dining room table. I had two eggs cracked into a bowl and scrambled. There was some spinach sauteeing in an iron skillet on the stove, toast in the toaster.

And then I walked over to the table to take a look at the game. I wasn’t going to sit down so I walked behind the chair and looked toward the screen. And somehow, as I turned my body in the small space between the table and the wall, I began to lose my balance and angle towards the wall. I thought, ok the wall’s right there...I’m falling but maybe I can use it to regain my balance...and if I fall, there isn’t far to go...I’ll just land on my butt against the wall.

It didn’t happen that way.

I fell into the wall behind me at an angle, bounced off and smacked my head near the base of the cast iron wood stove. I’m not sure exactly where it hit: near the bottom on the door-hinged corner, just above the foot. Immediately I thought, please don’t let it be bleeding. And there was a moment when it wasn’t. But then it came, gushing and warm.

Panic.

I got to my knees and grabbed my hoodie off the chair and pressed it against the mess of blood-wet hair above my right forehead. My phone was right in front of me (incredible luck #1) beside my laptop. Who do I call? My parents? What if they don’t answer? 911! Dial 911!

So I unlocked the phone, hands shaking violently with panic and blood loss, (and ALS). I dialed 911 (first time ever!) and when I heard “911, How may I assist you?” I stumbled into “I need help...I hit my head...”

I’m not familiar with 911 protocol, but I gave my name and address, told the operator I was alone, and yes, the door was unlocked (incredible luck #2). All of this while I continued to freak, pleading with the operator to adopt my level of urgency, “Oh my God there’s so much blood...I don’t want to die...”

If you ever wonder whether maybe you’d like to die, should it become a real possibility, and you’re anything like me, the answer becomes very clear.

The ambulance was driving from Bristol, ETA 20 minutes. The call went out to the local volunteer fire, someone should be there sooner.

And he was. I don’t know how long I was on the phone before someone arrived, but when I heard him pull in the driveway and timidly open the door and poke his head in, I yelled something unintelligible and he came to investigate. He also seemed quite nonchalant. What does it take to rile these people? A crime-drama-sized pool of blood didn’t do it.

With a mountain of gauze and bandages, he tried to wrap my head and stop the bleeding. It was constantly slipping and falling off. I held it in place.

When the ambulance (and EMTs) showed up I was still kneeling at the dining room table holding the gauze in place. They went through their (check for spinal cord injury) protocol, then, at my request, loaded and strapped me into a stretcher. I was shaking, shivering, and could not trust myself to stand.

They were cleaning up the blood while preparing me for a trip to the emergency room. An EMT used my cell to call my parents, but there was no answer. At my request, she shut off the gas burner under a scorching skillet of burnt spinach. She also put the scrambled egg bowl in the fridge.

I didn’t see if any of my neighbors were watching as they carried me across the driveway and loaded me into the ambulance. I was very curious. I have a very distinct memory of a woman approaching me in front of my memere’s house as the ambulance sat in the driveway. She wanted to know if my grandmother (her words) was okay. Panicked and hysterical I pushed past her and stormed off. My brother lay dead in the house.

They drove to Burlington as I was covered in blankets, shivering violently in my blood-soaked shirt. The same EMT who has put the eggs in the fridge tried repeatedly to insert an IV in my right arm. Protocol. It was never used.

We arrived at the emergency room at 11:53 am. Just kidding, I have no idea what time we arrived.

Once I was wheeled and transferred on to a bed, a doctor arrived quickly, said hello and jammed a novacaine filled needle into my head. In two or three spots I think. He waited for it to take effect and got to work with needle and thread.

Maybe I’m misremembering that. Would there have been an anesthesiologist? I think maybe there was. “Are you allergic to novacaine?” comes to mind.

It took nine stitches to seal it up. “I can add one more if you want double digits,” he joked as he finished up. I did not want more.

Soon after I tried my parents again and my dad picked up. Choked up and weak I managed to mumble a few words to which he responded, “We’ll be right there.”

My mom was freaking out pretty good as she hurriedly approached the bed asking what happened. I turned my head to show the bloody mess and several “Oh my God”s followed.

We drove to my house to get a change of clothes before they took me home while I recovered.

A week or ten days later I was at the urgent care center on Williston Road (that used to be a Burger King) to get the stitches out. I waited too long. They were pretty well molded to my scalp. Their removal was more tedious and painful than it should have been, but then, it was over.

I try not to think about what could’ve happened. It’s another memory that I have mostly chosen to forget. My hair covers the scar and, until now, you didn’t know.

Sunday, July 21, 2019


I weighed 113 pounds at my doctors appointment this week. We once again discussed, at length, ways for me to take in more calories.

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Why did it take me so long to decide to sell my house, to get a wheelchair, to stop driving my car? Why for years have I chosen to struggle with every task when I don’t have to? 

Because I didn’t want to give up. I couldn’t give up. I didn’t want to feel defeated. 

It’s difficult enough to keep it going, but as the outcome becomes more clear, all becomes darker.

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

I sold my house yesterday. Officially. All the papers have been signed, the keys handed over, the check deposited. I am no longer a homeowner, no longer indebted to the bank.

I am in a rare circumstance where I have sold a home and will not be buying a new one. I cannot expect to feel the joy and excitement of moving into a new home, but only the relief and peace of mind that follows the never-ending tedium of selling, moving, and purging. 

Really it went quickly. The house went on the market May 6, and closed July 15. In between, and truthfully prior to May 6, much was done. None of it was major or even beyond routine, though the driveway was refinished, but there are a lot of boxes to check. And showings to host. And paperwork to complete. And people to pay. 

I’m not sure how to feel. Relief and ease; that’s what I should feel. I don’t think I’m there yet. I feel the same. It’s been one day, but really it’s been two months since I moved, and with every visit it felt less like home. 

Instead of a home I now have numbers on a page. I wonder what those numbers can do.

Friday, July 12, 2019

Let’s take a little break from me. Last night someone was murdered a few hundred yards from where I sit. The story was on the A.P. wire as of 5:01 pm today. I did not hear the gunshots; I was wearing my headphones, watching La La Land on my laptop. I’m not really into musicals, but I enjoyed it, and kudos to them for making a 2+ hour musical, complete with tap dance scene, in 2016. 

So I was distracted. But if I had heard gunshots (five or six, in rapid succession, I am told) in the evening, or any time for that matter, murder would not have entered my mind. I’ve lived in Monkton for five years; people shoot guns at most any hour. My parents hear shots on a regular basis (at all hours!) in the woods behind their house.

My mother heard the shots, soon after she had put her head down for the night. She thought it strange but not enough to get out of bed, rouse the neighbors, and mount a posse.

Two cops showed up today just as my mother was washing my hair in the kitchen sink. I have to imagine this ranks high on the excite-o-meter for a couple of Vermont policemen, but of course they hid it well, stoic and nonplussed as always. I wish they had been just a bit giddy, excited to sink their teeth into a real-life homicide, but that might be in bad taste, only to be appreciated by me and a few other dark-humor sickos. 

Of course I know very little of what actually occurred. If you’ve seen the news you know every bit as much as me. Some of the neighbors, who of course called here today to swap stories, are uneasy. 

As it happens, I’m hearing gunshots out the back right now, 9:36 pm. Not in quick succession, more spaced out, like a far-off rifle. 

I’m on his (the victim’s) Facebook page, we have a mutual friend. The comments are of course beyond sad and make me want to delete this entire heartless post. I fear I’ve made light of a dark and disturbing occurrence. That was not my intent. I only meant to describe my view of an unusual day on Gilman Road.

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

a little list of compromises OR instructions for being me

I only hold utensils with my left hand.

I do not hold a fork, or spoon, the way you do. I hold it palm down, using my middle and ring fingers to press the handle into my palm, the way a small child would.

I don’t bring food to my mouth. I get it on the fork, or spoon, and bend my head and neck down to my hand, resting on the table or edge of the plate or bowl.

I only wear one pair of shoes, without laces. I sit and jam my feet in. I pry them off from the heel, using my other foot. My hands are not needed.

I have not washed my own hair since I moved. The shower is different and does not have a bar to prop my left elbow and reach and scrub my head as I stoop to bring my head to my hand. I didn’t do a great job, but I’ve kept my hair short the last few years. I have my mom wash it, bent over the enormous kitchen sink. I may let it grow a bit, see what we’ve got.

I also have put my own socks on since I moved. I can do it, but I have to be sitting in a low chair to reach my foot with my heel on the floor. It takes 10 seconds for my mom to put my socks on. It would take me several minutes and there’s a chance I would struggle, quit, and go without socks.

To put a shirt on I put both arms in the torso hole, lean against my bed, sit on the bed, then fall back to lay down, keeping my feet on the floor. At this point my arms and the shirt are resting on my chest. I then lift the shirt above my head so that the front torso is over my face. I cannot put my arms in from this position, so I sit back up and grab the shirt in front of my face and pull down to get my head through. I get my left arm through the arm hole and use my left arm to lift my right arm and get it through. Depending on the shirt, how tight it is and how stretchy, I push my right arm through past the elbow, or if I can’t, I use my left arm to grab my right hand and help pull my arm through. That’s all it takes! Layering is to be avoided.

I sit on the edge of the bed to put on underwear and pants. I always wear a belt. I zip the fly but I do not button. I may be able to, but I fear I will not get the button undone later. I’d rather not piss myself if it can be avoided. Side note: if I were a woman and had to pull my pants down to pee, I would live in sweatpants.

I use my left hand for the mouse, and for most things. I am right-handed, I think, but my right shoulder is beyond useless.

Of course there are more, but that’s enough for now.
Headphones are pretty awesome. I’m right where I was five minutes ago, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.

Saturday, July 6, 2019

My dad was telling my mom (I was eavesdropping) about a friend’s kids’ recent tribulations and how they freaked out. They’re always freaking out, both of ‘em, according to their mother.

These people, the freakers, are in their 30s; parents to a new batch of freakers.

Admittedly, I used to be a bit of a freaker. I’ve chucked golf clubs, punched things, and thrown tantrums (with or without F Bombs) loud enough to cause their own freak outs. As in, Holy shit I’ve never seen this side of him....ugh.

I don’t have any freak outs left in me, they’ve all been ground down by life. I find myself under-reacting now. Sometimes, a little piece of me welcomes a new batch of shit because I know, I’ll be alright and life will go on. 

Appropriately, I just heard a neighbor, father of two, yell “God-damn-it!” It was slowish, three separate words. Their house is not that close.

I’ve also spent a lot of time alone over the years, and I’ve learned what may be obvious, if there’s no one to hear it, why bother. Freaking out alone, as an adult, really made me feel stupid.