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.