A Slippery Slope

One might think that one could safely stand on a rickety stool and reach an item on a high shelf. One may even think that this could be accomplished without mishap.

But no, not necessarily. One can slip off the stool, backwards, and one can strike one’s head against the corner of a bed frame. And such an event could befall one when one is completely alone in the house.

This could happen. This did happen.

As I lay there, I thought about the 53 years of my life during which I had not fallen and cracked my head open. I sighed with a deep sense of nostalgia; yes, those were the days.

Gingerly, I checked to see if my arms were working, and then lifted the one that seemed to be working the best to touch the back of my head. It felt sticky, and for a moment, I wondered what I had spilled on myself that I had some sort of liquid on the back of my skull.

But not long after, I had to face the facts: it was not a foreign substance, it was my very own blood; the blood that, for optimum efficiency, was supposed to stay in my veins and under my skin, not dribble outside of it.

Well, some of it had escaped, there was no getting around it. I pressed two fingers against the gash and marveled at how the blood just kept trickling out, like a slightly leaky faucet. Clearly I would need some minor plumbing work done to get it to stop.

But I was as alone as I could possibly be. One small Shih Tzu mix, however enthusiastic, was going to be of little to no help.

It became obvious that I would have to consult an external source about my situation. I crawled down the hallway to the computer and signed onto the site for my medical carrier. I found a phone number for an advice nurse, and explained what had happened.

She seemed adequately concerned, and asked if I had blacked out. I told her I had not as far as I knew. She asked if I had a headache; I told her no. Still, she was eager to get me an appointment with a doctor, and within a few minutes, she had arranged it. I guess she wasn’t too concerned about my operating a motor vehicle in my condition.

So, a little dazed, I dutifully got behind the wheel, and with my head slightly dripping, drove myself the five miles to the doctor’s office. I guess no one told the receptionist that I had a head wound and needed to be seen because she directed me to take a seat and wait to be called.

So I waited for 45 minutes, wondering if my brain was swelling and if I would die in that waiting room with nothing around me but a cranky asthmatic and an outdated Oprah magazine.

But no, they called me just as I was contemplating taking my last breath, and then the mayhem began. I had never met my doctor, but she looked frankly terrified. She kept stating that this was a doctor’s office and that I should have gone to emergency(!!). I tried using logic on her, but that turned out to be futile. I told her that I didn’t think it was an emergency (and I drove myself there!), and because I had terrible medical coverage, they would send me a bill for $500 to tell me that I needed two stitches, or maybe liquid Band-Aid.

She looked steadily more and more distraught, but I asked her to please look at the wound and tell me what she thought. I turned around and she barely disturbed the hair around the bleeding gash. Then she called for a nurse! The nurse was definitely more competent than the doctor, and spread the hair so she could at least see what she was dealing with. The doctor kept to one corner and repeatedly urged me to drive myself to emergency right away (more driving!!).

The nurse told me that the gash was still bleeding, and that they were not equipped in the doctor’s office (!!) to deal with it. I asked if she had any liquid sealer, and she said no. Wow.

I asked if she thought I needed stitches, and she said it was borderline. I told her about my terrible coverage and she looked sympathetic. In the end, she did a weird thing where she used a couple of hairs around the wound and tied them together to close the gash slightly.

And that was the sum total of what they could do for me at the doctor’s office.

Well, with four hairs holding my gash more or less shut, I drove myself back home and called my husband to tell him that I had a bleeding head wound that was being held slightly closed by a couple of hairs.

He seemed dismayed by the news and reminded me of all those years during which I had never had a bleeding head wound. Like I needed to be reminded of my golden years.

He suggested that I call an urgent care facility to see what they would charge to put a couple of stitches in, which I did, and the bill would have been a nice, round $400. That just seemed too ridiculous.

I let him know, and he resolved to stop at the drugstore and pick up a few supplies to deal with the problem. He would perform any necessary procedures himself. That seemed a little audacious, even for him, but I had a dripping head wound, so I was in no position to be overly selective.

When he arrived, he had me sit at the kitchen table and lean forward so he could examine the afflicted area. He had purchased some sort of disinfectant for humans and some liquid Band-Aid. I asked, jokingly, for his professional opinion, and he thought he could clean the wound and seal it.

Well, since I didn’t want to pay $400 for a technician to spend two minutes on me, I told him to go ahead and do what he thought might work. That’s apparently where we had landed in terms of our medical care.

Without hesitating, he shaved the area so he could see what he was dealing with(!!). For vanity’s sake, I asked that he not shave more than he needed to.

Then he took a few photos of my gash with his phone, kind of a “before and after” to document the wonderful day I was having.

He cleaned the wound (ouch) and then pinched the edges of the gash together. Next, he applied the liquid sealer. Then he took more photos and covered the wound with a clean bandage.

Before I knew it, the procedure had reached its logical conclusion.

With very little fanfare, he had saved $400 and my life, in that order.

After that, I suffered very few lingering ill effects. The gash healed within a couple of days, and I was left with only the psychological trauma of what had happened.

I threw the offending stool away and purchased an industrial-style ladder, complete with sturdy metal handrails. Yes, it was overkill, but I would never again risk my life to reach an item on a top shelf.

And that is the end of this harrowing cautionary tale. If you can, just keep everything at eye level.

If that is not possible, consider wearing a harness and linking yourself to a metal loop that is attached to the nearest stud in the nearest wall (and not a faux wall!). I’m not a general contractor, so I can’t advise you exactly on the mechanics of avoiding a disaster such as the one I just described.

I can only tell you that I was simply reaching for an item that was just outside my reach. But it turned out that “just outside my reach” was a bridge too far when one is perched on a rickety, bargain-basement stool that is more style than substance.

Let that be a metaphor for life: make sure that you have an industrial-style step ladder with sturdy metal handrails when you are reaching for the patently unattainable.