On March 25, I was in the bathroom in front of the sink, innocently brushing on brown mascara, and I missed. I usually do. I stepped across the bathroom to grab a tissue from a chest next to the commode. I don’t know why I didn’t use the cotton pads I keep in a pink carnival glass powder box on a mirrored vanity tray, or, come to think of it, a makeup sponge behind the medicine cabinet mirror. Vanity tray. I haven’t thought of using that description in how many years.
When I turned to walk back to my sink (Dave’s sink is closer to the tissues,) the second vanity drawer between our separate bowls slid out in front of me. Here we go with “vanity” again. My split-second brain said, “Get out of the way.” It’s a puzzle to me, but I didn’t hear any instructions on the correct way to step aside. My right foot went over my left and caused me to stagger four or five feet across the bathroom.
First, I hit the wooden door with the left temple of my head. I know from my foray into serious brain study that the left hemisphere controls the right. At that time, my left brain told my right to use some of that “spatial awareness,” so I bounced self-protectively off the door, turned to the right, took one step, and hurled myself into the glass shower door.
This was a big fluke, RB (Right Brain). I broke that shower door with the back of my head. Everybody knows that when it comes to who controls that section, both components collaborate. I think both of them raided the liquor cabinet in the bar and were shindigging on margaritas in my best crystal.
It was a large shatter, but very little of the tempered glass fell out, and that was inside the shower. There would be no blood.
Dave was there in the best hurry he could manage, calling, “Are you alright?”
I answered him in the loudest voice I could muster, “No.”
As he stood, bending over my body on the floor with my neck still holding my head against the etched glass, he offered his hand and asked if I wanted help getting up.
Again, I answered, “No,” and added, “I can get up by myself.”
I did, hunching up like a lazy bear. Dave tried to assist my walking, but I outran him, and plopped down in my La-z-Boy in the living room. Actually, our open-concept room is also a bar, a dining room, and a music room. The grand piano barely fits into its assigned space. I’d like to sell it. Pianos are difficult to sell. Grands may get more attention than others, but it’s still hard.
I don’t know how long I sat in the recliner. I had a headache, not a bad one, and I almost went to sleep.
Dave and I discussed the emergency room. I turned down the opportunity, probably not the best idea I’ve ever had. We have this Republican woman running for Governor, and she’s devoid of a good mind and has never come up with an idea of her own. She’s been quite successful, first running for U.S House Representative and then the Senate, sailing merrily around our government, and I suppose doing everything she can to ruin all my long-held notions of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I could be successful too as a half-wit, which is what I wound up with after the crash.
The day of this event was a Thursday, as I recall, just after my writing group’s two-hour discussion, mostly about the half-wits running everything these days.
I drove myself to Dr. Bonvissuto’s office on Monday. She has been my primary care physician for about twenty years. I love her nurse, Heather. She can answer just about any question I have. When I called that morning for an appointment, she said, “Well, yeah, you need to see the doctor. And you didn’t go to the emergency room, Ms. Revell?”
Before I could answer, she asked, “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to.”
She alleged with certainty that I really wasn’t operating on all cylinders when I made that decision.
So, yeah, I got a concussion, a small one, they said.
A few days later, when all the symptoms hit at once, I wanted to ask these professional football players, who make big money banging each other’s heads, how they could get back on the field and operate with a large one.
I survived dizzy spells, nausea, left- and right-side brain fog, and generally feeling like a dog turd in the hot sun. Sometimes I couldn’t walk without weaving. I didn’t drive unless it was urgent. Dr. B and Heather had spoken frankly with me about driving my old Sienna van. I tried to cooperate.
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We welcomed the American Home Design representative into our home and gave him a seat at the dining table. He recommended removing the large Jacuzzi, creating a large shower there, and using the old shower area for a closet. The garden tub was useless, and I was glad it would be gone. We (I) chose colors and materials for the order. And got that puppy happy and done.
We have a new 72-by-48 shower. Everything works right after two weeks of installation and four service calls following. The last of the tweaks and corrections happened shortly after my phone call with the curt, maybe rude, Installation Manager, who thought he could mansplain. Uh-uh. My brain is unruly, both halves.
It’s beautiful, with faux grey marble walls, a large picture window filmed with the stuff you can see out and they can’t see in, and shiny chrome accessories. There are lots of bars and shelves to hang onto and a built-in bench. We’re still wallpapering, painting, and adding shelves in the closet and other handy places.
So we have a new bathroom. The walls are a delicate, soothing pink. It’s not girly, just comfortable. I’ll post photos when the room is finished.
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You can have a new shower, too, although I can’t recommend my method. I might suggest a sledgehammer to the shower door and just tell your husband you broke it with your head.
On the Ravine 