I Probably Think That Song Is About Me

A couple weeks ago I fell at work.  It was one of those "where are the cameras?!" moments that had me sailing down the hall, arms outstretched for what felt like 20 feet.

Am I surprised that I fell?  No.  Only that it's been so long since the last time.  Oh, and that I didn't have an audience.  The last time I fell on the job was about eight years ago.

At a mixer for several local chambers of commerce.  To be specific, I was in a business that provided non-emergency medical transport.

From the top of the stairs to exactly halfway down.

Why halfway?  Because this office was in a converted house circa mid-19th century.  The stairway was narrow and I'd "saved" myself by using the handrails on both sides.  Only my hands slipped and I went bumping (loudly) down the stairs on my knees with my arms hung over the rails.

Until I hit the brackets that held the handrails to the wall.  Halfway down.

My body jerked forward, but did not dislocate my shoulders.  I stood up and declared, "This is not an emergency and I do not need medical transport," before limping off into the sunset.

I was clumsy as a kid, too.  My mom says there were two reasons she put me in gymnastics.  One, because I watched the '76 Olympics and Nadia Comaneci without moving, totally rapt.  And two, because she figured I might learn how to fall more gracefully.  I'm going out on a limb and saying her reasoning was pretty sound.

Still, I bonked a lot.  Photos of my childhood show knees with huge bloody scabs and legs and arms full of bruises.  How many times did I have toes taped together until the breaks could heal?

Let's not even get into the fact that I have a scar on top of my foot from stepping on a piece of glass.  My mom said it was only possible because we're Polish.

I ran into things with my face, too.  Two black eyes at the same time?  Check!  Yep, pretty exciting times being me.

I was a tomboy.  (What?!)  I never really considered myself vain.  I mean, there was a time when I appreciated my looks (and now I can appreciate that they are fleeing and leaving crepe-y, wrinkled old lady skin in their stead).  I went three years without mascara, eye shadow and lipstick (the most makeup I ever wear) because I couldn't take anything for my allergies.  It wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Whatever.  I'm vain.  About my teeth.

If you knew me when I was a kid, you would not be able to guess such a transformation would take place.  In my home, oral hygiene was completely optional.  I had yellow sweater teeth* for a long time.

*Sweater teeth may alternately be known as bread teeth, depending on whether or not it looks like a person has just eaten bread.  Ever notice how bread clings to dirty teeth?

(Ever notice that any time people bring up oral hygiene or teeth in general, people close their mouths and run their tongues along their teeth?)

My sister and I, we of the mutant crowded teeth, had a longstanding wish fulfilled at age 14.  An orthodontist in a neighboring (bad) town (the sort of place you wouldn't like to visit) ran a coupon in the paper.  Fifty percent off!  And they took payments!  With a coupon from the neighbor's paper, we had a two for one deal.

One requirement before the appliances were installed (why are they called that?) was a trip to the dentist for X-rays.  Between my sister and I, more than one-third of our teeth had cavities.  I have a vague recollection of our parents asking us to choose between fillings and braces.  My sister had an extra set of eye teeth and my front teeth formed two-thirds of an isosceles triangle.  It was a no brainer for a couple of young teens.

A few months before my braces came off, a hygienist showed me how to brush my teeth.  There was something about those little circular motions that stuck with me and I've been doing it ever since.

The first time I went to the dentist was 12 or 13 years ago.  I had the same number of cavities as I'd had at age 14.  And little dark, hard spots on my teeth.  Oh, I was a beaut!

I smiled behind my hand.  It took one coworker pointing that out and the rest of them encouraging me to go to the dentist for me to finally put on my big girl panties and go.

The dentist scheduled me for four visits, deep cleaning and filling cavities in one quadrant at a time.

A weight I didn't fully understand I was carrying, lifted.  How often was it in the back of my mind?  I felt freer and instantly quit the habit of covering my smile.

I have not missed a dental appointment since then.  One time, I showed up a week early by mistake.  In fact, I go every five months because those pesky allergies often make me a mouth breather, which is a great way to get more nasty goo on my teeth.

Seven years ago Nancy mentioned that one of my front teeth was starting to turn colors.  My front teeth were in pretty bad shape anyway, with little chips out of the inside corners.  But now one was dead from all that bonking.  It was turning brown.  I had a root canal and a month of internal bleaching to get it back to a normal appearance.

The day after my home run-like slide down the hall at my office, I sat in the dentist's office steeling myself for the first step in getting a crown on that same tooth.  I guess the root canal had made it more brittle, and there was a fracture running from top to bottom.  Going to the dentist doesn't usually stress me out in the slightest, but I'd forgotten to find out what to expect until about four hours before my appointment.  No one I asked had any experience, or if they did, it was decades old and they didn't really remember.

The receptionist had to fill in for the regular hygienist for a few minutes.  She tried to reassure me that the end result would be worth it all.  But she was very clear that I would not like the process or the temporary crown.

I did not enjoy at all the numbing injection in the roof of my mouth, the sound and scent of my tooth being "shaved down, like a peg," or the fact that I realized my dentist has yellow and brown teeth of his own.  A lot of them.

Add to that the sensation and *gag* sight that caused me to say, "I'm kind of a gusher, huh Doc?"  (I tried to reassure myself later, asking the hygienist if it's normal to bleed that much.  After a long pause, she said, "Ummm, well, it's... not... uncommon."  Yeah, okay.)

I did take a peek at my peg of a tooth before the temporary crown was placed.  It was too depressing.  Imagine a front tooth about one third its normal width and length and the gums around it purple and blue.

Like I wasn't bruised enough already from my fall, right?

Doc figured out my tooth color and the hygienist went to work shaping the temporary crown.  When it was all done, I got to take a peek.

*sigh*

Sometimes the strangest things make me regret moving up here.  Like having a dentist whose teeth don't look well cared for.

Or the fact that my temporary tooth was way too narrow at the top (of course, flossing was a breeze, so there was that).

Or, what seemed like the worst part of all... it was yellow.  Why?

*ohm*

I felt more than a little down when I left the dental office that evening.  The receptionist had done her best to prepare me for what I'd see after the temporary crown was placed, but I was surprised anyway.

My face was numb, with blood spattered here and there.  My gums battered, my body and limbs equally bruised.  One tooth that looked like it belonged to Bubba the Lifelong Smoker.  It seemed to be placed a little askew, so the bottom right corner stuck out while the bottom left corner pushed in.  Could it get any worse?

Yes, it could.

As the numbness went away that evening, I noticed that my nose ached.  Really hurt.  Eventually I dared to look.  No, not in my 10X magnification mirror.  And what did I find?

A massive zit.  Which I foolishly attempted to pop.  Much like my mouth, it just bled.  A lot.  And left a scab that lasted three long days.

I soon realized that there were gaps on both sides of Bubba.  Big ones.  That caused me to blow bubbles when talking for more than a few seconds.

Okay, so the fact that I talked less over the past two weeks would not be deemed a problem by everyone.  I get that.

This evening I returned for part two.

Nervous?  Yes.  I believe I used the phrase "rising anxiety" to the dentist.

I turned on my MP3 player, set it to my birth playlist and tried to block everything out as he used a pair of pincers to remove Bubba.  It was uncomfortable and I was struggling not to imagine what would happen if he broke off my peg of a natural tooth.

In one of those moments that can best be described by most middle schooler's favorite word, I realized that I accidentally licked the dentist's gloved hand.  Awkward!

The next song that came up through my earbuds?


Apparently, using a phrase like "rising anxiety" and then bursting into uncontrollable giggles freaks out my dentist.

Bubba eventually came loose and my permanent crown was tried out.  The relief that swept over me at the pressure I felt when it squeezed into place bordered on ridiculous.  The ginormous gaps were gone.  The corners that had irritated my lip and tongue for two weeks?  Gone.  The unnatural thickness of Bubba?  Disappeared.

Were we done?  We were not.

I knew I was getting a filling on the other front tooth, but I hadn't heard about a cavity there. Normally I ask questions, but I had been silenced by fear and bubbles.  Well that other tooth was pretty banged up from years of abuse, too.  So the "filling" was really more of a filling in where the little chips had fallen out over the years.

I have two whole teeth.

That are reasonable tooth colors.

Bubble blowing will again require a wand.

I told my dentist I might sprout a happy tear.  He was glad to know in advance it would be a happy one.

One odd thing I learned tonight?  The process of oral coronation causes nasal acne.  That's right, I have a pimple so massive on the side of my nose that it hurts to flare my nostrils.  (I do it to entertain the girls.  It's a skill, I swear.)

Thank goodness I'm done.

Somebody, play my song!

All's Well That Ends Well... So I Hope This Is Over Soon

Tom and I are not people who parent by fear or in fear.


Or we haven't, but I could really see myself going that way now.


A little background: This afternoon we were expecting to host an end-of-the-season dinner for Tom's softball teammates. In preparation, I've been working on finishing up the kitchen cabinets and staining our new dining table (that we've had still in the box nearly five months). Tom, the organizer extraordinaire, was handling the living and front rooms, including shampooing the carpets last night.


When we finally crashed last night, the table was done, except for the clear coats (which I planned to do today), the carpet was drying and two cabinet doors needed their final coats of Dried Violet (check out the almost black color about 3/4 down the page) and to be hung.


Even though I was a filthy mess, with way too many streaks and drips of Cabernet gel stain on my arms, legs and hands, a shower was out of the question. I was exhausted. So I removed the dirty clothes and put on a long-sleeved shirt and pants to sleep in.


Because I had more work to do on the table, I put my stain-riddled clothes back on this morning. As I did, I pondered how it looked like I'd been sprayed with blood. But what else could I do? I don't own that many clothes to begin with, so staining in something else was out of the question.


As Tom and I were replacing the furniture in the living room, he decided that the large floor pillows we have also needed some freshening up. So he set up the wet vac and got to work. Somewhere in there, some water was left on the floor.


Mad woke up rarin' to go... like she always does. As she was following us around, she ran through that little bit... that tiny little bit of water.


Slipped. Fell. Cracked her head on the kitchen floor. Made a sound, but didn't really cry while I picked her up. Put her head on my shoulder. Threw her head back.


I thought she was playing.


Her eyes were rolling back in her head, her mouth was puckered and I couldn't get her to respond. Somewhere in my brain I recalled that part of the movie, Airplane!, when the young girl's IV is knocked out and she loses consciousness. As Tom called 911 (thank you to whomever set that up, by the way), I worked frantically to get a response. Madelyn started turning pale and then blue.


She started coming to a little, but wouldn't make eye contact and her cry was strange. I recently read or saw something about brain injuries and how the lack of eye contact can be a symptom.


I put her on the floor, on her back and started tapping her foot, bicycling her legs and calling her name.


Finally, she came back to me.


It didn't last. As we waited for the emergency service (and thank you to the person who thought of that, too!), her eyes were rolling again. She turned blue again. I was hitting the bottom of her foot as hard as I could while holding her and getting nothing. I went straight to the floor with her this time, but it took just as long to get her to come around the second time as the first (in reality, probably about 90 seconds each time... so, you know... 10 years).


The fire department got there first, followed right away by the AMR people. They were thorough, mostly didn't assume they knew Madelyn or how she behaved (one guy from the fire truck did suggest that the second time we couldn't get a response might have been because Mad wore herself out from crying... uh, NO, she turned blue and her eyes were rolling back again).


They gave us the paradoxical choice of having them take her in to be checked out, or not... and based on their assessment, she didn't need to be checked out, but if we didn't let them take her, then we had to sign something saying we would take her in to be looked at.


I'm a pretty competent parent. And Tom goes into uber-collected mode in an emergency. We've taken infant/child CPR and first aid classes twice. But I did NOT want to be left alone with my daughter this morning. Maybe if nothing happened after the first time, okay, but not when she lost consciousness twice in less than 10 minutes.


So they strapped Mad's carseat onto the gurney and I rode along next to her. She was fine the whole way. I was mostly fine the whole way.


Here she is upon arrival (no, I wouldn't normally take pictures in this situation, but I sent it to Tom and Corey so they could see she was calm... they were stuck in the lobby for a while):


Since I started thanking people, here's a continuation of that list (most of whom I have already thanked in person):

*Tom, for remaining so calm... and, odd though it may sound, for being the one who left the water... Corey would never recover if he'd had any hand in this, no matter how innocently it occurred and even though she seems to be okay;
*Corey, for staying cool in front of Mad, even though his voice was shaky as he kissed her good-bye and said, "I love you," before we boarded the ambulance;
*The firefighters, just for being there;
*The AMR guys, for the jokes ("First time in an ambulance? Yeah? Mine, too. Paul [the driver] loves that joke. Never gets tired of hearing it.") and for taking down all of Mad's info and passing it along.
*The nurses and doctor at Victor Valley Hospital, who didn't ask us anything; they knew the whole story before we arrived. They came into our little curtained off area and said, "Hi Madelyn!" and got down to business. When it was all over, the paperwork took about three minutes.
*And lastly, my mom... because she was the one person I broke down a little to while retelling the story (well, besides you... but you can't see or hear me so it's not quite the same).

As we drove home, Tom and I debated briefly whether or not to go ahead with our plans for tonight. Since Mad was given a clean bill of health, we kept to our plans. As I put her down this afternoon, I told her what I always do, "I love you so much and so much," but then I added, "You can sleep as long or as short as you need, but just please wake up when you're done." During her typical three-hour nap this afternoon, we must have checked on her at least 10 times.

This afternoon, Mad ran around her home like she always has. I wanted to run along beside her, ready to grab her as soon as she seemed ready to fall. I did not.
Why yes, I do have a nasty headache. Okay, it could be all the ash and smoke in the air, but I'll bet that's not all.

Tonight we will be checking on her way more than she'd like (Mad's an excellent sleeper)... but probably not enough to satisfy my heart that she is truly okay.

Here's the deal: My secret fear with Madelyn is that I won't always get to keep her... that she won't be with me forever. I attribute it to the fact that I have wondered how long I will be alive during her life. However long that is, it will be 15 years less than Corey gets. So I figure I'm mentally switching those fears around or something. Whatever it is, today is as close to realizing that fear as I never wanted to come.

So my new goal is to not let this change the freedom I give to my daughter. And to not have a heart attack while letting her be free.
We know now where the closest hospital is located (something I'd just looked up on Friday, but hadn't exactly figured out). Or, at least Tom does. I know it's on a hill overlooking Corey's high school.

On the way there, I truly regretted my decision not to shower last night... or to brush my teeth before coming downstairs.

More than one person today asked me why I was such a mess. Well, that's not how they said it. Here's the conversation I had with the ER doctor:

"So she slipped and fell?"

"Yes, on the kitchen floor... there was some water from the carpet shampooer."

"So... where'd all the blood come from?"

"Oh, that's just an unfortunate coincidence. It's not blood. I've been staining a table."

Mad had a pretty thorough exam, including Xrays. After one of them, the tech came over and started feeling around her head, muttering something about "the artifact." Turns out there was a staple under the cushion she was laying on during the Xrays. Apparently it looked like she had a staple lodged in her skull. Happily, she does not.

Start to finish, the whole excursion took just over two hours and she was given a clean bill of health. Not bad for a Sunday morning trip to a completely booked ER.