I'm
not what you would call graceful.
My
history includes many episodes that range from awkward to downright
clumsy. A classmate once described me as being “as coordinated as a
cow on stilts.” But the defining moment of my school career
occurred during a junior high basketball game when, after attempting
a layup, a laughing teammate declared that I looked like a flying
camel.
And
lo, unto me a nickname was born. To this day, former school friends –
as well as their parents – still refer to me as Camel.
On
one recent morning, it was hard to tell whether I resembled a camel,
cow, Bambi, or some other odd animal as I lay sprawled upon my icy
driveway, howling in pain. Venturing out in a bathrobe and flip-flops
to get the morning newspaper, the freezing rain claimed another
victim, a cruel reminder that Mother Nature takes no prisoners during
Wisconsin winters.
In
pursuit of the day's headlines, I instead acquired a headline of my
own, a Harry Potter-like laceration above my right eyebrow. When I
went down, my forehead struck the corner of a stone wall, almost
immediately inflating a bulge that looked and felt like a baseball
growing out of my face.
After
the ice melted on the roads - and in the pack on my forehead - we
made the obligatory trip down to urgent care, where x-rays of my head
showed nothing (apologies to Yogi Berra). The medical staff were all
very nice and sympathetic, never once blurting out “You idiot! What
were you doing out on the ice?”
Of
course, when you visit the doctor, you get asked to rate your pain on
the 0 to 10 scale, with 0 being no pain and 10 being worst possible.
There is a chart on the wall to assist you in your pain estimate,
with helpful facial expressions next to each number. For example, 0
is a big smile and 10 is a huge frown with tears. With each number up
the scale, the center of the eyebrows moves upward, the smile
straightens and then turns downward, the eyes look sadder and finally
cry. Even with that as a guide, I never know what to say. It would be
easier to self-assess with real world examples; say, a paper cut is a
2 and having your leg gnawed off by a tiger is a 10.
I
was also brutally honest with the doctor examining me. When she asked
how I was feeling, I simply replied, “stupid.” No other answer
(“OK,” “Fine,” “Not so good,” etc.) seemed appropriate.
Fortunately,
no stitches were required on the cut; instead, it was held together
with a big glob of glue. It was like being in second grade art class
all over again.
A
knock to the noggin is the gift that keeps on giving. Three days
later, swollen purple sacks formed in the corners of both eyes.
Within a day or so, I sported two shiners straight out of a Rocky
Balboa film.
Trying
to hide facial injuries is an art. The head wound was camouflaged by
parting my hair to the other side. With the black eyes, contact
lenses were eschewed in favor of dark-rimmed glasses. The restyled
coiffure just felt weird, though, so it didn't last long. There are
worse things in the world than displaying a big purple splotch on
one's forehead. Heck, it didn't stop Mikhail Gorbachev.
It
is also an art to avoid staring at someone's injury. The wound on my
head is just so darned interesting to folks. It is hard to avoid
laughing when seeing people's eyes dart from my forehead to my eyes
and back. At least they can look straight into my eyes to appreciate
the shiners.
I
guess I should have listened to the advice I dispensed from the
theatrical stage two years ago, as I sang the line, “When on thin
ice, please watch your step.” The musical? Of course....“Guys On
Ice.”
