My Life In Stitches: In Which I Chronicle Trips to the ER

1981: I am four and “helping” my dad in the back yard. “Helping” means playing Tarzan with the stakes and ties holding up his tomato plants. Shortly after he says “Stop that, Rebecca!” for the fifth time, I take one more leap/swing and fall, hitting the back of my head on a log. My only memory of the aftermath is my mother and sisters coming home to find me standing on a kitchen chair while Dad tried to comb my hair and assess the damage. Stitch count: four.

1982: I am five and a budding gymnast. I use the couch arm and the adjacent director’s chair to play parallel bars, supporting myself on my hands and letting my legs swing free. I have been told not to do this. Many times. But I continue and am surprised to be impaled on a sewing needle my mother has left stuck in the arm of the couch. Doctors try and fail to remove the needle, so an orthopedic surgeon is called to finish the job. The wound is closed, and my wrist and arm are wrapped and splinted. I am treated to McDonald’s at the end of the ordeal. Stitch count: two.

1991. I am fourteen, and it is early in freshman year. I take out the trash, yelping when I get near the door to the carport. A piece of glass punctures the trash bag and my right wrist. I watch this one get stitched and think it’s pretty cool. I get the side eye at school and realize what a bandaged wrist implies. Tasteless jokes about suicide ensue. My mother still apologizes when this incident comes up, and to this day I shout “There is glass in the trash!” repeatedly when there is glass in the trash. Stitch count: four.

2007. I am thirty. It is the morning of Thanksgiving. Friends are coming over, and I am working my way through the prep spreadsheet I’ve meticulously created. Cutting an onion with a freshly sharpened knife I slice through my left index finger. We apply pressure. We elevate. The bleeding continues. I insist I will be fine. There are tears. Neal offers to drive me to the ER, but I refuse. Thanksgiving must go on! I accept a ride to the Metro station and take the subway to GW, elevating my finger the whole way. A handsome physician’s assistant stitches me up and I am back home in under two hours. A Thanksgiving miracle! Neal and Char do a fine job cooking without me. Stitch count: four.

2009. I am thirty-two and en route to visit my college roommate. I leave work at the Folger early and might be rushing more than I should along the uneven sidewalks between work and the train station. I catch my toe on a brick and land on my face. I am not entirely sure what I’ve injured, but I know I’m very bloody. A passing construction worker hands me a fairly clean towel, which I press to my nose. Other passerby stop. I sit on the sidewalk until an ambulance arrives and four clean cut, well-dressed doctors emerge, circle me, and lift me inside. Perhaps due to their attractiveness, I perk up a little and stop crying long enough to explain where I was headed, that I have MS, etc. I ask if they always dress so well when picking women up off the street, flirting just a little. They explain that they’re physicians at the Hart Senate Building(!), just down the road. I am driven the half block then wheeled through security and into their office, blissfully unaware of what a horrorshow my face is. I sit in a comfy chair. The doctors clean me up a little then ask if I’d like to see myself. “Sure!” I say. A mirror is brought and I see a bruised nose, a gashed forehead, and a severely split lip. I realize this is the face that was flirting moments ago. Idiot! I keep it together until I reach Neal at his office and sob as I try to tell him what happened. One of the doctors takes the phone and explains. Neal retrieves me and takes me to GW’s ER where, after six hours, I get stitches in my forehead and lip. The lip flushing and Novacaine is excruciating. Recovery is slow and gross, but I am eternally grateful to PA Amy for her beautiful work. When I feel up to it I deliver a thank you note and cookies to Dr. Harder and the other Senate doctors. Dr. Harder calls to follow up. We do not start a torrid affair. Stitch count: twenty.

2014. I am thirty-seven. I trip in the basement hallway of the Folger and bang my forehead on a door frame. First aid is kindly administered by a member of the fabulous security staff, which is always so good to me. Stitches seem inevitable. An ambulance is called in spite of my asking to simply taxi or Uber. I feel ridiculous being carried out on a stretcher for a mere brow abrasion, but I smile through it. Inside the ambulance I wonder why the Doppler effect never kicks in. God, that siren is so loud and relentless! Oh right. I send Neal an email entitled “Oops I did it again” en route, and he meets me at the ER in spite of my telling him not to. The ambulance arrival gets me through triage more quickly than usual. I leave with stitches along my left eyebrow and a shiner. Stitch count: five.

2020. “I am forty-two, no forty-three,” I tell the physician who runs to my side. I have just finished six hours in the Cancer Institute of Washington Hospital Center getting my first infusion of Ocrevus, my new MS drug. I am groggy from the meds and from sitting so long but have assured the nurse who wheeled me to the lobby that I wil be fine to make it to the Uber. Three steps away from the car I fall to my left, scraping the side of my face on a cement planter and landing chin-first on the sidewalk. My Uber driver and a hospital guard scoop me up, deaf to my cries of “Please let me sit a minute!” (Obviously they haven’t read my blog about falling.) I teeter between them while being peppered with questions by the guard, an indignant aid (“I keep telling them not to abandon people post treatment when they’re too weak to walk!”), and the aforementioned physician, who examines my chin, declares stitches necessary, and fetches gauze to stuff into my bloody face mask. I am put in a wheelchair and pushed to the ER to check in and then wait. And wait. And wait. Foolishly I text Neal, who drives to the hospital, neither of us remembering that Covid restrictions mean he cannot sit with me. He runs in with Coke and water and says he’ll be right outside. We text sparingly as my phone slowly dies. I read much of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before as well as a good chunk of a David Rakoff collection. After three hours I am brought to a private room where my vitals are taken for the thirtieth time (thanks to the earlier infusion). I am examined. I am told I need a CT scan to ensure my jaw isn’t fractured, which will delay things further. Boo! But I am offered drugs. Hurrah! The drugs arrive an hour later, and I rejoice in Tylenol-3 and water (my bottle long ago emptied). The doctor returns, saying he might as well stitch me up while I await the scan, and the moment I lie back, a nurse arrives to take me down the hall. I wait. I am scanned. I am stitched at last. I am given a gauze goatee. I call Neal from the lobby and collapse into our car, twelve hours after he dropped me off. Stitch count: five.

Forty-four stitches in nearly forty-four years of life. And what have I learned?
1. Listen to my parents. If they say not to do something, there’s likely a good reason.
2. Walk slowly. (Neal scoffed at the idea that I have learned this. I’m trying!)
3. Ask for help.
4. A Kindle full of good books can make anything bearable.
5. Facial wounds do not enhance one’s flirting game.