2016: A fresh perspective.

One of my goals for 2016 is to blog more. Simple as that. I seriously lack in the consistency department, so hopefully now that I've scheduled the time to blog in my phone, I'll actually sit down and do it. Fingers crossed! 

Other goals for this year include:

1. Learning to play the trumpet.
2. Becoming more patient and kind.
3. Wearing my hair down at least three days each week. 

And on that note, I'll leave you with this photo of my lunch today at Busboys and Poets after cheering on the Maryland Women's Basketball team. 

^^The best tabouleh salad I've ever had, and a falafel pita with tons of veggies and tahini. So amazing! 

The Accident: Part 9

I got inside my home, and my mom got me all situated on the family room floor per my request.  My parents have this wonderful heated floor in the family room, and in the winter it is the very best thing.  We all grab a blanket and lay on the floor like dogs.  It is tremendously soothing, and helped my achy body relax.  My mom and dad went to pick up my sisters, and to retrieve our cars from the parking lot.  My parents warned my sisters (ages 12 and 14, at the time), that I looked different, and that I was really hurt and sad, but that I was the same person, and with time that I would be back to my old self.  My sister Jenn entered the room with her gentle, kind demeanor and laid down next to me on the floor.  I had no more tears to cry, so we just sat in silence while the TV played in the background.  I don't think either of us said a word, but that was okay.  My sister Carrie came in a few minutes later.  Being a little younger, I think she was a bit more hesitant, but she came in and didn't really want to see my wound.  I don't blame her one bit, since I hadn't seen it all stitched up yet myself.  She sat down on my right side, and joined the sister cuddle.  It was going to be okay.  We all were.

My mom had also picked up my prescriptions, but I refused to take those painkillers.  They are so strong that it scared me.  I stuck with taking Tylenol around the clock, along with the prescribed antibiotics to fend of infection.  I went to bed that night in a lot of pain, and unable to sleep on my left side.  However, given the events of the day, I slept like a rock.  I kept my phone nearby so I could call my mom if I needed anything, and at one point, I texted her asking for "my drugs" because the pain was creeping in.  We laugh about my comment now.    

The Accident: Part 8

On the ride home, I sat in the backseat with my mom.  I rested my head on her shoulder.  I felt numb.  I had no emotions, and I was exhausted.  I could not even muster the energy to cry.  It was cold and dreary, but the Christmas lights twinkled as we drove.  

I could not wait to get home. 

The Accident: Part 7

When we got to the hospital, I was wheeled in through the Emergency Room entrance.  It was not something I had ever hoped to do, and certainly was not on my list of things to do during winter break.  My mom walked behind me.  The cool part about getting to the hospital via ambulance was that I did not have to wait for a bed or to be seen by the medical staff.  I immediately was transferred from the gurney to a bed, and within two minutes John, the kindest ER nurse you could ever imagine was by my side and was looking at my face.  He was so compassionate, and was willing to do anything to make me comfortable.  John changed my gauze, gave me an antibiotic, and got an IV started to keep me hydrated.  I don't really like needles, but that day I like to think that I conquered my fear.  John showed me how the IV works and that there is a teeny tiny tube that stays in your arm when they remove the needle.  

The ER doctor came over a few minutes later, and both my mom and I agreed that we really liked her.  She was friendly, and kind, and realistic, and spunky.  My mom really liked when the doctor said that she thought that a plastic surgeon should stitch me so that the scar would heal better than if she stitched me.  Our plan of attack was born.  A random nurse came over to do an EKG of my heart.  Funny thing is the EMTs and John had both taken my pulse and blood pressure and listened to my heart, and never said anything about me needing an EKG.  My mom tried to tell him that my heart was fine, but he insisted.  And he then confirmed that my heart was strong, and beating just fine.  

During the time we had to wait for the plastic surgeon to be pulled from surgery (don't worry, I think his part of the surgery was done), my mom and I talked.  I cried.  My mom went out to the waiting room to get cell phone reception so she would call my dad, and arrange for someone to watch my two younger sisters.  I cried some more.  We looked at magazines.  We heard and saw other patients being wheeled into the ER.  Some were crying, some were screaming in pain, and others were arguing.  The woman to my right had a knee injury, and the woman to my left had a severe stomach pains and was in so much pain that every few minutes she would let out an ear-splitting yell.  I was handling the pain well, and was glad that I was not making a scene.  The one coincidental thing that happened was that one of my classmates from high school was one of the EMTs who was wheeling a patient back.  I was glad that he was not one of the EMTs who had responded to my situation.  I would have been mortified.  

The plastic surgeon arrived.  It turns out he was the was the chief plastic surgery resident, which was even better.  He asked me to smile, and then frown, and then smile, and frown.  He asked me to make very exaggerated facial expressions.  Why, you ask?  My mom and I asked the same thing.  The way my face was cut was dangerously close to facial nerves that allow you to smile, and frown, and control your mouth.  The facial nerves are in your face like fingers.  I had had no idea that I was so close to being far less fortunate.  I knew that something or someone had been looking out for me during the accident.  Luckily, the nerves in my face appeared to have been spared.  

John and the surgeon asked if I felt strong enough to stand up and walk a few feet to a giant sink.  They needed to clean and sanitize my wound.  I said I was good to go.  I stood up, still wearing bloody clothes and connected to the IV tower, and made my way to the sink.  They had me to lean against the wall, but told me to keep my head tilted very sharply against my right shoulder.  They needed my head over the sink.  The method for cleaning my wound?  A large bottle of iodine.  Yes, they used the entire bottle, and yes, some got in my mouth.  And yes, it tasted as awful as you would expect.  The iodine stained my skin a lovely (read: sarcastic) yellow, and it dripped all over me.  

By this time, my dad arrived.  He had come to drive us home since both my mom's car and my car were still parked by the eye doctor's office.  He came back just as I laid down on the bed with my freshly cleaned injury.  I was laying with my back toward the entrance of the curtain-clad pod, so I didn't know that he was there, until my mom said "daddy is here."  I was so grateful to have both of my parents with me.  My dad does not handle blood and cuts and injuries well, so my mom promptly told him to wait in the waiting room and to get me a water bottle for the car ride home.  I knew that the most painful part of my day was yet to come.  I laid on my right side of my body in a fetal position.  My body ached from falling so hard when the accident occurred.  During the fall, I had been dead weight, and my chest, shoulder, and face had taken the brunt of my fall.  I had taken my blood-stained, red sweatshirt off before they cleaned my face, and now had it wound up so very tightly around my hands so that I would not move, or fidget, or give in to the urge to swat at the doctor's hands.  I had a death grip on that sweatshirt.  In that moment, that item of clothing was my biggest comfort.  My mom had offered to hold my hand, but I knew that I was going to need to squeeze very tightly and did not want to hurt her, or break her fingers, so she sat behind me, and she provided gentle chatter.  

First up, was administering local novocaine.  I had had novocaine before at the dentist, but this was a whole new ballgame.  They had to give me three or four shots due to the severity, depth and length of the wound.  One shot was given to my face at the middle of my cheek near my nose, one shot was given closer to my ear in further down, and the third shot was given just above my jawbone.  The third shot hurt like hell.  I couldn't make faces while they worked, so I hung onto my sweatshirt for dear life and clenched my teeth together.  I knew that I was stronger than this pain.  I closed my eyes, and imagined that I was on the beach and could hear the waves crashing on the shore.  

After a few minutes, the novocaine kicked in, and they were ready to begin suturing.  They covered my face with a piece of that medical paper/fabric to keep it sanitary, and I think so that I could not see the instruments they were using on me.  It panicked me not to be able to see, so they moved it back a bit so I could see John within my view.  And then it began. 

The surgeon started at the top and worked his way down, but first he had to apply a layer of internal stitches since the wound was so deep.  He was very clam, and would tell me little stories along the way.  I felt every single pull and tug that he made to get the stitches in place.  I could hear the tugging and crunching in my ear, and it was awful.  They instructed me to keep very, very still.  I wrung my sweatshirt tighter and tighter.  I was taking out my pain and anger on that piece of cloth that was littered with the memories of my terrible, tragic day.  John gave me a look of confidence when I felt like I would writhe in pain.  He gave me updates on how far down they had stitched.  He reminded me to breathe.    

They were almost done, except the last part of the wound was the worst part.  It looked like it had gone through a blender.  It was mangled, and there was not much skin to work with to pull my face together.  That part took the longest to piece together, and hurt the most.  At one point I asked for more novocaine.  Thankfully, they obliged.  In total, I had 37 bright blue stitches holding my face together. 

The blue of the stitches really was the icing on the cake.  

I had made it through the portion where they put me back together, yet I still felt like pieces of me were scattered everywhere.  

Once my IV had been removed, and a prescription for some super strong painkillers had been written and given to my mom, I was free to go home.  We gathered up my belongings and headed out to the waiting room where my dad was waiting     

What I had thought would be a two hour appointment, turned into a 10-hour saga.  A saga that tested my spirit, ripped my heart into a million pieces, and left indelible marks on my body.      

The Accident: Part 6

It felt like it took forever for the ambulance to arrive.  I asked my mom how much longer.  I thought I was going to wither away into a pool of blood and tears if the EMTs did not arrive soon.  She told me that they were on their way.  

Finally, they arrived.  I saw the ambulance pull up, and I realized that they had come to help me.  I had to remind myself that this was not a nightmare, this was real life, and little did I know about the a long journey I was about to embark on.  

They wheeled in a gurney, and carried in a toolbox-looking thing with medical supplies.  They asked me my name, they asked me what I remember last.  They asked if I had eaten lunch that day, and what I had.  I had eaten lunch--leftover soup and grilled cheese.  Was I on any medication, what had I done earlier in the day.  The questions were flying, and I was trying so hard to answer them with those five ghost-like people still just staring on.  

I knew it was bad when the EMTs asked the employees a question about what they saw and they said they hadn't noticed me or seen anything.  They asked what I had cut my face on.  Crickets.  I wanted to scream.  How on earth had no one, not one person, noticed the sole patient at the office?  What were they doing instead?  How dare they pretend that nothing had happened, that they had done nothing wrong?  If nothing had happened I would not be in this position.  That was precisely what I would find out to be the issue.  They had done nothing.     

The EMTs were incredibly kind.  They were patient, and they were helping me.  To this day, I don't remember their names.  I'd love to thank them for helping me when I was so vulnerable, but alas, they are anonymous in my mind, and I rather like it that way.  I hope they know how truly grateful I am for their service.

They immediately applied gauze to my facial wound.  They dampened it with distilled water so that the edges of the skin would not dry out.  The doctors at the hospital would need the skin to be pliable, they explained.  My blood pressure was taken, my bones were checked for breaks.  They checked my mouth to make sure my teeth were still in place, and to make sure there were no internal injuries in my mouth.  My teeth were still there, thank goodness. 

The most comical thing that happened was when they needed to test my blood sugar.  They went to prick my finger, and my mom stopped them and said "she has so much blood on her face, can't you use that?"  They said no, and pricked my finger anyway.  That would prove to be the least of my worries.  The EMTs told me that it was a wound that could be fixed, that they had seen worse, and that I was tough and that they would get me to the hospital.  One EMT drove the ambulance with my mom in the front seat, and the other EMT rode with me in the back.  My mom told them which hospital to take me to, and the EMTs agreed that the bigger hospital associated with the medical school was the way to go.  Off we went.  They did not put the lights or sirens on.

The EMT riding with me in the back was funny.  He was lighthearted and was making me laugh.  I appreciated his effort, and that he was trying so hard to calm me down.  He asked me to keep talking to him to ensure that I wasn't losing consciousness.  I told him about college, about my friends, about what I was studying.  I asked him how much longer until we got to the hospital.  I asked him to give me fresh gauze with distilled water.  He gave me Tylenol.  I was terrified to move my face too much for fear my skin would rip more.  He assured me that talking or drinking water would not make the cut worse.  I leaned back and tried so hard not to cry.  I was comforted knowing that my mom was in the front seat.  

The Accident: Part 5

Not more than two minutes later, my mom, dressed in a black corduroy jumper and a wool car coat burst through the office door.  Having my mom there felt like Christmas morning.  I was so relieved.  I don't know that I've ever felt more grateful to see my mom.  At that moment, I knew that no matter what happened, I would be okay.  My mom had never let me down, and had never let anything bad happen to me, so I knew that she would comfort me, and help me, and stand up for me.  Up until that moment, I was treated so horribly, like no person should ever be treated or made to feel, that I was worthless, an inconvenience.  My mom made me feel like I mattered, and that I was important.  She knelt down on the floor, and took my hand in hers and let me nestle my mangled face on her shoulder.  It was not until that moment that I began to cry.  These were very deep, guttural sobs that I believe were coming from the depths of my heart and soul.  It was not a sound I had ever heard before, and I hope one that I don't hear again for a long, long time.  I was physically hurt, and emotionally shattered.  I had subconsciously willed myself to hold it together, but I just couldn't hold in my pain any longer.  I felt free.

Looking back on that moment in time, I know that my mom was truly shocked at how I looked.  I know that she was being strong for me, and did not want me to know the severity of my injuries.  Later I would come to know that my mom only showed her sadness and anger behind closed doors, because she knew that it would have been worse for her daughter who worried and panicked, me, had I seen her authentic reaction.  In reality, I was crying enough for the both of us, and feeling all the emotions.  

My instinct was that this incident was my fault.  I apologized many times to my mom, who assured me that it was not my fault, and that I had done nothing wrong.  She reminded me that accidents happen, and that it was not my fault.  She tried to keep my spirits up, although I don't know that much could be done at that point.  Instead to buying Christmas presents and heading back to work, my mom was cradling her oldest baby who was hurt beyond words, and assuring her that everything would be okay.  She called my dad, per my request.  I wanted to hear his voice and tell him that I was okay.  As a little girl, I used to beg for my dad if I got soap in my eyes while taking a bath or if I saw a bug in the bathroom and needed someone to get rid of it.  He was a source of comfort, like my mom, and I needed to talk to him.  I don't remember our conversation, but I remember telling him that mom was with me, and he said that I was going to be just fine and to take deep breaths.     

The Accident: Part 4

The patient sat down in the chair next to me and rubbed my back.  She turned the mirror on the desk away from me, and attempted to block my view so I would not see the state of my face.  But she did not get it turned away fast enough.  I saw my face.  My left cheek, which had been perfectly smooth and alabaster, was now gaping open with a very deep, ragged wound.  It looked like something from a horror movie.  I could see my cheek tissue, and blood was running down my face.  There was blood in my mouth, and my cheek was numb.  I felt like I was looking at someone else in the mirror but it was really me.  I did not recognize myself.  I desperately tried to erase that image from my mind, but it was burned there, and forever it will stay.