A Tale of Four Concussions

There has been much discussion lately in the world of football about the seriousness of head injuries. New rules and regulations have been put into place to limit the chances of players sustaining concussions. Coaches have been fired for allowing concussed players to stay in the game and risk further, possibly fatal injuries. No sir, concussions are not good. Here are a few symptoms and long-term effects for your enjoyment; I know how you love medical facts:

Signs and symptoms of a concussion may include:

Headache or a feeling of pressure in the head
Temporary loss of consciousness
Confusion or feeling as if in a fog
Amnesia surrounding the traumatic event
Dizziness or “seeing stars”
Ringing in the ears
Nausea or vomiting
Slurred speech
Fatigue

Some symptoms of concussions may be immediate or delayed in onset by hours or days after injury:

Concentration and memory complaints
Irritability and other personality changes
Sensitivity to light and noise
Sleep disturbances
Psychological adjustment problems and depression
Disorders of taste and smell

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/concussion/DS00320/DSECTION=symptoms

Okay. I cited my source like a good little English teacher. Is it in MLA format? No! Do I give a crap? A little, actually.

“Concussions.” Symptoms (2011): 1. Web. 16 Jun 2011. .

Concussions. Not good. I have sustained a few. I think, and my memory is fuzzy, that I have had four concussions in thirty years. At that rate, I’ll have four more by the time I’m sixty, then it’s Alzheimer’s City, baby! Sucks for Kevin.

(Digression: I have a rather large head, and have often wondered, in this gigantic cranium of mine, whether its size is at all related to the injuries.)

The first one was a swing related injury in the seventh grade. I was swinging on the school playground during recess and hoping that I would finally make a complete three-sixty over the bar. When that failed, I thought, “Why not amp this up a bit? I should swing as high as possible and go from a sitting to standing position mid-air!” Oh, I was a bright one. So, that’s exactly what I did. Then I flipped in the air and landed enormous head first on the gravel…because that’s the safest surface for playgrounds. I was knocked out cold.

The next one was later that same year, again in front of all my pubescent classmates. We were gathered in the gym for P.E., and the coach (I’m blanking on his name, – go figure – but referred to him as “No Lips” because his lips were the exact same shade as his face.) brought out the “Fat Albert Ball”. For those not in the know, it is a giant rubber ball (much like my head) about four feet in diameter. We were told to play indoor soccer with this thing. I want to cuss right now just thinking about it.

I’m sure I was picked last, and I was put in the full-back defensive position. The game began, and this monstrous orb came speeding toward me. I kicked it toward a teammate. But, I didn’t really kick it. It is impossible to explain what exactly happened. My body did things I never thought possible and couldn’t possibly recreate. It was Cirque du Soleil before Vegas, y’all. I threw my leg up, but must have misjudged the speed of the ball. I was somehow thrown into the air, flipped, and landed head first on the gym floor. I was knocked out cold.

Number three was the next year. I was playing intramural soccer. Sports that involve balls (insert dirty joke here) are just not my thing. My head is a magnet for balls (TWSS). Even today, I will not go near anyone playing with balls because I will absolutely, without fail get hit in the head (hehehehehehe). Frisbees too. Enough ball jokes.

The only logical reasons why I was always placed in the full-back defensive position: I attract balls like hippies to Whole Foods, and I’m far too uncoordinated to be a goalie. And there I found myself again, not really paying attention to the game, but staring at Andrew’s cute butt running around the field. And then I was smacked in the face with a muddy soccer ball and knocked out cold. I awoke to the creepy guy with a major crush on me (mentioned previously in “I’ll Tell You A Tale of A Bottomless Girl”. I’ll tell you his story in a later post.) hovering over my face. BARF!

The forth happened a few years later, six to be exact, which is nothing short of a miracle. I was a wild and wooly Sophomore in college. My friends and I took a road trip from Austin to Denton and back in a caravan of three cars for the sole purpose of attending one party. For the sake of all individuals involved, I will omit many details of our trip. But, I will say that we had a blast, everyone survived, and blue Jesus appeared.

On our trip up to Denton, we stopped at a gas station. I went in the store to pee and grab a caffeinated, frosty beverage. It was an extremely windy day, with gusts strong enough make me walk like a drunk (my excuse). I lowered myself into the backseat of my friend’s car when a strong gust of wind slammed the door shut on my head. I slumped into the backseat of the car knocked out cold, and the door closed behind me. My friends took off toward Denton not knowing that I was dead and bleeding in the backseat. The two cars following behind us saw the door hit my head. But, since my car drove off, they figured I was fine. Ah, the days before we all had cell phones. A few miles later, I came-to. My friends in the front seat were completely oblivious that I was unconscious in the back. I had no idea what had happened or where I currently was, but I was bleeding from my right ear, so I figured I was hit in the head with something.

Did we stop everything and rush to the Emergency Room? Are you nuts (one more ball joke)? No ma’am, we went straight to the party.

The end.

Let’s Get This Clumsy Started!

I’m sure my parents would refer to this week as “The Week From Hell!” I remember it as my first clear memory. It was the summer of 1984, I was three years old, and my family was stationed at Camp Pendleton, CA. I made three separate visits to the ER in just a week and a half, all for different, completely unrelated accidents. (Side note: My parents are incredibly loving, nurturing, responsible people. Not one of my many injuries over the course of thirty years was a result of any neglect on their part. Perhaps my father could be blamed for his clumsy genetics, but thus is life.)

Accident One: On a beautiful summer evening, my sister and I were playing in the front yard. She was chasing me on the sidewalk. I tripped and landed teeth first on the concrete knocking out my two front teeth. My parents called the dentist (who was off hours), and he recommended trying to put them back in since they broke at the roots. I refused to cooperate, so they placed my teeth in milk, begged the dentist to see me that night, and rushed me to him.

He was unable to replace my teeth. The adult teeth did not grow in for another four years.

Accident Two: A few days later, my parents had a church picnic in our backyard. Many of the guests brought “Get Well” gifts for me and my toothless, bruised face. In preparation for the gathering, my parents removed the metal, umbrella-like clothes drying rack. There was a circular metal sleeve where the rack was inserted sticking about half an inch out of the ground. My mother put a flower pot on top of it so that no one would trip on it.

The party begins, and everyone was having a fantastic time. I was playing in my room with a few other children. One of the kids brought his Big Bird toy telephone, and it was just about the coolest thing ever! It was so awesome, that I had to tell me parents about it immediately.

Meanwhile in the backyard, one of our guests thought, “This is a really bad place for a flower pot. Someone is going to trip on it.” And, he moved it out of the way.

Moments later, I came skipping out of the house to beg my parents for my own Big Bird telephone. I tripped, landing shin first on the metal sleeve. It entered my leg. My parents abandoned their party to rush me to the ER. I was held down by several large, male nurses while the doctor sewed up my leg. I received twenty-six stitches and still have a massive scar.

Accident Three: A few days passed, and I spent the majority of that time laying on the couch watching TV. One of the neighborhood boys came to visit, and Mom said we could play in the front yard. We had a large green metal electric box in our yard, and my friends and I would often play around it or on it. It was probably not the safest place to play, but whatever.

My friend brought his new Tonka truck over. Let me remind you that it is 1984. Today’s Tonka trucks are all plastic, and I may be the reason for it. The truck had a metal bumper.

We placed the truck on top of the electrical box and pushed it back and forth to each other. One of us had the idea of incorporating Peek-A-Boo into this game; we would roll the truck toward each other’s faces and try to duck out of the way before we were hit. Brilliant, right?

Well, you know where this is going: the metal bumper hit me in the right eye and sliced my lower lash line open. Yay! Another trip to the ER! The RN wanted to stitch it, but Mom pointed to my leg and said, “She knows what stitches are! Do you really think she’ll let you get near her eye with that?” The doctor felt that a butterfly bandage would suffice.

And thus began my life of awkwardness.

I’ll Tell You A Tale Of A Bottomless Girl

It was the summer between my seventh and eighth grade year, and my family was stationed in Gaeta, Italy (it’s okay to be envious). Hundreds of Italians and Americans flocked to beautiful Serapo beach for the day, and my family was among the crowd. My girlfriends and I swam out pretty deep in the Mediterranean. Someone had the brilliant idea of holding an initiation into a girls only club. I will tell you now that absolutely nothing ever came of this “club”. In fact, I haven’t heard from any of these girls in over fifteen years.

The rules of the initiation were this: remove your bathing suit, hand it over to a friend, dive to the bottom of the sea, touch the sand and swim back up. I volunteered to go first.

I was wearing a two piece, and handed both pieces to a friend. I easily dove to the bottom and back up, and asked for my suit. She handed it to me, but not entirely. She had dropped my bikini bottoms, and the current swept them away. All of my friends immediately abandoned me for the shore; afterall, someone has to tell everyone on the beach.

So, I’m treading water bottomless staring at the hundreds of people on the beach. My whole family was there, my future brother-in-law, nearly every one of my classmates, and the creepy guy with the enormous crush on me. Let me remind you that I am barely thirteen years old. I was told later that my father had to physically restrain the creep from coming to my rescue dressed in snorkling gear.

Eventually, my sister swam out with a towel, but I refused to go in. There were only two ways I was getting out of this: finding my bottoms or drowning. She swam back ashore, and I began my desperate search.

An hour passed, and drowning was looking like my best option. God, however, had many more years of awkwardness planned for me, and my bottoms floated beneath me like polka dotted shame.

My family still tells me to put on suspenders

The Mother of All Embarrassing Moments

I was student teaching English IV at San Marcos High School, and it was my first day to teach all seven periods (I said “periods”) without the supervision of my cooperating teacher. Needless to say, I was nervous, but I was ready. As all educators know, opportunities to use the restroom are few and far between. Being new to the profession, I was not urinarially prepared (probably not a word). By seventh period, I was close to peeing my pants. I gave my students an assignment to keep them occupied, and excused myself.

I ran down the hallway to the nearest staff bathroom. Upon entering, I noticed that the first stall was open. I burst through the stall door, tripped and fell face first into the lap of a pooping collegue. I flew backward onto the bathroom floor, but lost my clog in her stall. I lowered my head and reached back in for it, apologizing profusely.

At this point, I was overcome by hysterical, teary eyed, heaving, silent laughter. The unfortunate, defecating woman just kept repeating, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

I crawled into the next empty stall, and peed what was left of my remaining urine (yes, I pissed myself). Germs be damned, I was not waiting around to wash my hands. That could wait until my scalding shower in the fetal position that evening. I was out of there before she finished, though I’m sure she was stalling too (he-he…punny).

The remaining weeks of my student teaching semester were spent avoiding that poor woman.