By Carol Lucas
Let me start off by saying that I debated long and hard whether or not to write this particular column because it involves my pride as well as my judgment.
I dallied around with a title, hoping to make light of the subject. “Carol’s fall from Grace” came to mind or maybe “Carol learns a lesson the hard way.”
You see, last week I decided this 84-year-old was quite capable, thank you very much, of navigating an elevated area in her driveway. There were weeds that needed to be pulled because they were unsightly. And maybe while I was up there I could power wash my much-beloved statue of the little girl from “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
Let’s just say that good did not prevail, and evil stood lurking.
Long story short, Carol never made it to said elevated area. Instead, she fell back, cracked her head and bled profusely.
I was stunned and lay there for perhaps two minutes. When I finally got the courage to lift my head and place my hand where I thought I had landed, my hand emerged bright red, almost enough to make me fall back once more. There are reasons why I never became a nurse, and the sight of blood is one.
Now this sad tale of woe is multi-faceted, and the following is one aspect. My younger daughter and her husband recently moved into my previous home when I down-sized. That house happens to be diagonally across the street from my new one, and when all of this came to pass, one of her first remarks to me was, “Mom, this will be great! I can look out my window and keep an eye on you.” Really? I was quick to respond, “You may not always like what you see.” Rolling of the eyes.
I tell you this, dear reader, because when I finally managed to get into the house, I called her to say I had fallen. Her immediate response was, “I’m calling an ambulance.” I shrieked something that indicated “no way,” and she said, “I’ll be right over.” What she failed to say was, “right after I call the ambulance.” Kids! They just don’t listen.
So I got myself into the shower (I was told later that doing this wasn’t the smartest, but I never pretended to be the brightest bulb in the chandelier.) When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping but at least bloodless, what to my wandering eyes should appear but a roomful of uniformed men in my bedroom. Excuse me? And there sat my daughter on my bed with a look I will call smug … she will assert it was one of concern.
My first thought was that there had to be a better way to get so many males into my bedroom, but that remained unspoken. I quickly closed the door, put on a robe, and then one examined my head, saying I had a pretty good sized gash, and that I probably needed to have it looked at.
Reluctantly, I agreed to climb upon the gurney and be taken out of my house and into the ambulance. Of course neighbors were out and concerned, but get this: my daughter had the nerve to take a picture after I was safely tucked into the ambulance. I couldn’t hear, but I’d bet my next social security check she said, “smile.”
And now to the ride to the hospital. I made up my mind that I was not going to be the needy patient because actually I felt pretty good. Embarrassed? Indeed. Grateful it wasn’t any worse? Likewise. I thought to myself, “Let’s make the best of this little adventure.”
And so to the last aspect of the story.
Those paramedics commandeering my Cinderella carriage were simply the best. Perhaps this becomes the focus, indeed the highlight of my adventure. Eddie, Jeremy (I hope I am right on that — many apologies if not) and Jennifer kept me amused, and if memory serves, I may have participated in the exchanges. Call it quintessential harmony.
Jeremy is a Philadelphia Eagles fan to which I gave forth loud derision since I still bleed black and gold for my beloved Steelers. Eddie kept me amused with one story or another which kept my mind from wandering and wondering what was going to happen once we got to the hospital. Jennifer sat up front, but she was very attentive once we arrived.
And those in the emergency room? Top notch. I had a CAT scan on my brain which showed nothing. You may interpret that as you wish, dear reader. And finally, we got to the head gash. You simply won’t believe it; I certainly didn’t.
They glued it! You read that correctly. No sutures, no staples, but glue. My daughter was there to take me home, and I remember mumbling something to the effect that had I known, I had Gorilla Glue at home.
She quickly shuffled me out the door.
All humor aside, I have such respect for those who tended to me last week. Bravo! Kudos! And no small amount of love and gratitude.
Carol Lucas is a retired high school teacher and a Lady’s Island resident. She is the author of the recently published “A Breath Away: One Woman’s Journey Through Widowhood.”