Slow Down, Woman! by Carla Damron

March third, three days before my birthday, is a day that will live in infamy.

Our odd little literary festival, “Deckle Edge”, took place that day, and I assisted with vendors and helped with three different sessions. I looked forward to the evening reception because I would introduce the WONDERFUL, nationally-renown poet Nikky Finney before she received the Southern Truth Award. Nikky and I went to the same high school school in Sumter, SC, so I think of her as my more accomplished, brilliant, literary sister.

I went home between events to freshen up after my long day. I was kind of pushed for time, so I hurriedly splashed water on my face, blindly reached for a towel and … TRIPPED OVER a drawer I’d stupidly left open.

Crash.

I hit the floor, my face colliding with the side of the tub.  (In case you didn’t know it, BATHROOMS ARE DANGEROUS PLACES).

The first thing I noticed was the bleeding from my nose. I yelled for my husband. He grabbed towels and tried to stop the flow—it wasn’t horrible, but it wouldn’t stop. “I can’t introduce Nikky until I get this bleeding stopped,” I thought.

The next thing I noticed was pain. Rather intense pain, radiating between my eyebrows and down my nose. “I hope the bruise doesn’t form until after the reception.” Odd that I was worried about my appearance at that point, isn’t it? 

“I think we need to get you checked out,” the ever-logical spouse said.  A google search found a single Doc-in-the-Box that was open on Saturday evening.  The awful realization seeped in: I wasn’t going to the reception. I wouldn’t get to even SEE Nikky, much less introduce her.

When I called the festival organizer to let her know, the tears came. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was crying—disappointment? Pain? Fear that maybe I’d really hurt myself? She was wonderfully sympathetic and found someone to take my place.

Once we arrived at the medical clinic and filled our paperwork, they took us back right away, which might have had something to do with the blood dripping everywhere. A kind doctor ordered X-rays, and within ten minutes I was back in the exam room getting the cut on my nose glued shut.

“The good news is your nose is straight,” the doctor said. “The bad news is, you broke it. Three little breaks all in a row. I don’t think you need surgery, but I’m sending you to an ENT to be sure.”

By the time I got home, I looked like an assault victim. The pain intensified, and the doc didn’t want me to have meds that would knock me out, for fear I’d roll over and misalign the nose.  I took anti-inflammatories, kept ice on my face, and wondered what the result of this mishap would be.

I missed a few days of work, which was not convenient given we were in the middle of manic planning for our three-day mega-conference held later in the month. Working on a computer only worsened my headache, as did reading, driving, and thinking. When I visited the ENT, she inserted what felt like a twelve-foot probe up my nose to make sure bone fragments hadn’t gone anywhere they weren’t supposed to. That felt as awesome as it sounds.

“I don’t think you’ll need surgery. And the headaches will get better when the swelling inside goes down. Keep icing it and take it easy. In three or four weeks and you’ll be better.”

“Say what?” I replied. Three to four weeks? That would never do. I had a million items on my conference planning to-do list and a month-long headache simply couldn’t be an option. Neither did I relish the idea of looking like a raccoon in front of 500 social work colleagues.

Here’s the thing—I didn’t really have an option. While I often delude myself that I have some control over my life, we all know that random forces can alter our course in a blink. I did what the doctor advised: iced my face and took things easy. When I worked, I limited my time on the computer. (I also found that enlarging fonts made it less painful). I treated the racoon markings with arnica.

I resumed most of my life, including choir and church (where my priest greeted me with “Hey, there, Rocky!”), but carved out more time for rest, especially when the headache demanded it. I asked for help and wonderful social work volunteers stepped up. All the million little details that only I could do were handled by very competent colleagues.

By the time the conference began, I still had bruises, but could hide them under fifteen layers of makeup. The headaches gradually subsided. I won’t say the conference went off without a hitch, because we always have hitches, but mostly folks had a great time.  We did a “Candidates for Governor” forum that made the evening news, and my face appeared on screen with no sign of racoon markings.

I’ve mostly healed now, except I don’t want ANYONE touching my nose. (Remember this next time you see me, because if you touch my shnoz, I will deck you).  

What’s my takeaway from this adventure?

1) I am not irreplaceable, no matter what my ego tells me.

2) As I get older (and certainly no less clumsy), I must be more mindful of what I’m doing to reduce my risk for falls. Bathroom drawers stay closed. Rails are held when I descend stairs. I watch where I’m going.

3) I am not Gumby. I don’t bounce. My bones can break. Bathtubs do not make a soft-landing spot.          

4) As bad as it was, I had a guardian angel looking out for me. As the doctors told me, this kind of fall can be fatal, yet I didn’t even need extended medical treatment.

5) I don't need to rush through life. I can, and must, slow down to be mindful of my safety. 

Will I use this experience in my writing? You betcha! Expect some character in my writing future to break a nose—and I’ll go into graphic detail about it. You will marvel at how authentic my descriptions will be.

Have you broken a bone in your adult years? What was it like?