Fall from grace

“I have to ask you this,” a nurse looked down at me lying on a gurney, peering over her half frame cheaters, “do you feel safe at home?”

I must have looked quizzical.

“I mean would anyone there hurt you?” she continued.

“Oh,” I said still in a concussion-induced haze. But I was sure I had done this to myself so I answered, “No… I mean yes I’m safe at home, and no, no one hurt me.”

I guess it is pretty standard now in an emergency room to throw that question out there for the potentially battered and abused women, men too, that present with the kind of injuries I had. And then there was the circumstance, how exactly I ended up in the ER with a potential concussion, three knots on my head and a fat, bruised and split lower lip that would make anyone question the validity of my story. Flu like symptoms and a predisposition to Vertigo not withstanding, it was a pretty bizarre story.

Honestly I was feeling fine up until about 10 o’clock the night before. Lounging on the sectional with my husband watching a plot confused, post apocalyptic Tom Cruise science fiction flick, the first sign things were not quite as they should have been was when I reached for my guilty pleasure—a bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers, Parmesan flavored. On any given day I can eat half a bag in one sitting fooling myself all the while that they have very few calories because they are just tiny little fish. After a few handfuls my husband, the perpetual killjoy, snatches the bag from me and tells me I’ve had enough. But this time after eating only three or four fish I pushed the bag away feeling a bit squeamish.

The movie ended with about as much satisfaction as the goldfish and my husband went to bed. I stayed on the sofa watching late night comedic pundits. My drooping eyelids briefly alerted to the sound of blaring horns and the caw of the swooping eagle announcing The Colbert Report, and then I drifted off.

It wasn’t long before my slumber was interrupted by sharp stomach pain and an urgent need to go to the bathroom. No sooner was I on the commode and the gushing from my hind parts began with the force of a fire hose, a condition that became the mantra of my next five hours.

I was desperately tired and wanting to go to bed but from my spot on the couch there was a straight shot to the downstairs bathroom. The abrupt necessity to vacate my bowels was occurring every 15 to 20 minutes with only intermittent excuses to vomit, which I would have gratefully preferred.

At about 4 am I sat in the darkened downstairs bathroom, long since having bypassed flipping the light switch saving valuable seconds to launch, when the diarrheal urge was competing with the urge to vomit. In a state of exhaustion, dehydration and delirium the last thing I remember was that I must somehow switch positions to avoid puking on the floor.

Black out.

“The next thing I know,” I tell the doctor, “I’m thrashing around on the tile floor. I’m tugging at the scatter rugs trying to pull them over my body like they are my blankets. And only as my bare bottom is scratched by the torn rubber underside of the floor mat do I realize I’m not in my bed and this is not my comforter and my damn pants are twisted around my ankles. Not only that, but my head hurts and my mouth is swollen.”

Then I explained how I felt my way around the small still unfamiliar room, grabbing hold of the toilet seat to leverage myself to stand. Only then did I realize where I was. One hand to the wall for steadiness, I yanked up my pajama pants. With my head pounding and the taste of blood in my mouth I flipped the light switch and in the mirror met a horrible sight that was apparently me. Hair flattened to the left side of my head with a vomit and blood infused gel, one round red lump was displayed on my forehead and I plowed my fingers through my hair to find two others burgeoning on my crown. Then there was what looked like red lip liner applied neatly and exclusively to the left side of my mouth as if drawn on by a neurotic bisectional cross dresser. It was blood dried to the edge of my lips, a forensic state of cosmetology indicating I had been unconscious on that cold hard floor a good 10 minutes. With a finger I pulled my lower lip down exposing a mouth full of blood and a puncture wound neatly aligned with an upper incisor.

All this happened in the bathroom, alone? Hmmm. What kind of person gets a stomach bug and ends up looking like a prizefighter after falling off the toilet? I think you can see where the skepticism comes in. My injuries just didn’t jibe with a simple fall to a tile floor. But I was quick to dispel any idea that my clueless husband who dumped me off in a virtual ER drive by had anything to do with it.

Well sure doc, I told him. It’s just like I’m telling you. I swear. I must have rolled around on the floor or something.

As it turns out a key piece of evidence had gone unnoticed as I staggered out of the bathroom and up the stairs to report the drama to my husband who rolled over and told me to get some sleep. After explaining I might die for want of a nap he eventually dropped me off at the ER and turned back home directly as he too was feeling a bit woozy. (Karma is a bitch)

But what I had yet to discover back at the scene of the fall was that a small antique wood table suitable for bathroom reading material and strategically placed in front of the toilet was also a casualty of my early morning tumble. Only after being discharged from the ER did I discover its structural integrity had been completely compromised being struck by a large heavy free falling object – my head.

Upon further examination the lower shelf of the table was completely split in half, legs splayed outward and securing screws dangling from the force of the trauma. It seems the only thing keeping it standing was a dated Consumer Report wedged into the opening of the splayed legs. When I removed the magazine the table fell to pieces like a Tetris tower with its vital tile removed.

Only then could I reasonably account for exactly three lumps where my head thrust into the legs beneath the table top apparently only missing one, and a punctured lip that must have smacked the lower supporting shelf before I landed on the floor.

A perfectly reasonable explanation that would have gone a long way to satisfy the ER staff who reluctantly allowed me to go home after pumping me with several pints of saline fluids and performing an EKG and Cat Scan revealing nothing abnormal.

So back to the question, do I feel safe at home?

As it turns out falls are the number one cause of accidental injury in the home in America resulting in about 6000 deaths a year. Go figure. Could have happened to any naturally clumsy person with Vertigo compromised by a fast moving stomach virus and one very kitschy albeit poorly placed antique table.

I guess I’m as safe as I will ever be.

All I ask is that there be no bathroom memorials.