One of my most powerful memories is often linked with the thought, First graders are astonishingly stupid. Well, maybe ‘stupid’ isn’t the right term. It’s more like ‘prone to injury due to not realizing that this is a terrible idea’. Now you’re curious, aren’t you? What did I do as a first grader?
Well, it started with a spelling test. As every child knows, spelling tests are always associated with grievous pain, but typically, the pain doesn’t turn physical. It was one of those little ten-word tests, the ones with the ever-complicated spelling of ‘baboon’ and ‘finally’. Every first-grader’s worst nightmare: does broccoli have two cs, or two ls?
So I was having my mom test me. We were in the office of my house, my mom at her desk, and me standing near the corner of the room. I think the word I was spelling was ‘horrible’- as in, what a horrible idea you’re about to have, little first-grade me. I was young. I was… maybe a little unwise. But for whatever reason, I decided that spinning in a circle while spelling was an absolutely fantastic idea. You can probably see what the problem with that was.
Spinning, spinning, spinning. And… enter the filing cabinet. Yep. That hurt. If you want a description of what that felt like, then imagine you’re running, and you hit the sharp corner of a table or something. Now make that table metal, and apply it to your head. That’s what it was like. As you can imagine, there was blood everywhere.
My mom freaked out and started yelling for a very understandable reason: I probably looked like an extra from The Walking Dead. I was staggering around, blood gushing all over the place. I remember feeling disconnected; a Did that just happen? kind of feeling. My mom grabbed me, made me sit in a chair, and brought a pile of rags for me to hold to my head.
Three rags later, my dad showed up with his truck- I’m pretty sure Mom’s car was having trouble. He drove us both to the hospital.
Now, I’d been to the hospital before (besides the time when I was born). But going because I had a problem? That was terrifying. You know how there are all those evil, creepy doctors in movies? Well, that’s what all the doctors at the hospital were, or so I thought, anyway. I was surrounded by Hannibal Lecters and Dr. Jekylls. It’s a good thing I wasn’t familiar with either character at the time, or else I’d probably flip out and accuse them of wanting to eat my liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. I was a weird little child.
Of course, my dad didn’t help either. There are a number of things he isn’t good at: speaking foreign languages, reading a book in a reasonable amount of time, and medical situations. Once, my mom needed to have a root canal. My dad was supposed to drive her home, key words being supposed to. My mom ended up driving because he passed out at the sight of the root canal. And this was the same guy standing next to a little girl bleeding all over everything.
I’m not sure who he was trying to reassure- himself or me. Either way, he failed miserably. I’m never going to forget this: he told me- a little first-grader terrified out of her mind- “Hey, I can see your brains leaking out!” Thanks, Dad, thanks so much. And you wonder why I go to Mom with problems instead of you.
I completely freaked out- my brains were leaking out? I kept touching the side of my head, expecting to see pink goop all over my fingers. (Right now, I’m thinking: Dad, I hate you so much. What is wrong with you?) And then- dumbest thought ever- How am I going to pass the spelling test now? How am I even thinking? I think younger me had her priorities messed up. A spelling test was not my biggest problem at that current moment. But for the record, I totally aced that spelling test.
Anyway, as soon as I figured out that my brains were perfectly intact and unspilled, thank you very much, Dad, the doctors finally got on with the procedure. I remember staring up at the ceiling, counting the little black flecks on the white tiles, when the doctor came in. She was going to give me a numbing shot in preparation for stitches, and decided to give me the worst analogy I’ve possibly ever heard: “It’ll just feel like a mosquito bite. That’s it.”
Thing is, you don’t really feel mosquito bites, and I had a feeling that I would, in fact, feel a gigantic needle. Plus, mosquito bites swell up, so I was wondering if my head was going to puff up like a balloon. Looking back, I can tell you that I did feel the needle, but my head did not puff up. That would make for an awkward picture day.
Sum of my hospital experience: felt absolutely petrified thanks to my dad, the word artisan, and the doctors, none of whom ate my liver, but were decidedly unnerving with those masks.
After stitches, we went to pick up my brother. He was staying with my grandmother, because neither of my parents wanted him to see his sister bleeding everywhere. He’s not really great with medical situations either. He was maybe around nine or ten years old, and like any older sibling, he just couldn’t resist taunting his younger sibling: “You look like Frankenstein!” Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Frankenstein- he had a PhD. Although I think he was referring to the monster. Nothing wrong with monsters either; they’re cool.
But younger me was tired, irritated, and also enjoyed insulting her brother. So I snapped back, “Even with the stitches, I’m still better-looking than you!” or something to that effect. I think my dad was surprised that even after filing cabinet impact and the creepy, creepy doctors, I still retained the ability to argue with and insult my brother. But I will always have the energy to make fun of him- it’s a sibling thing.
I fell asleep the instant I got home. It had been a long day, and the anesthesia didn’t help. When I woke up for school (yes, I still had to go to school), my mom made pancakes. With a ton of chocolate. Probably close to a literal ton of chocolate. Nothing makes pain go away like chocolate-chip pancakes.
I went to school, and all the kids were like, “Wow! Look at your head!”
And I was all like, “Mm-hmm. Yeah. I didn’t even cry.” In truth, I never actually did cry, mostly, I think, because of the shock of it.
All the girls at school were asking, “Did it hurt?” Yes, clearly it did. I doubt anything sharp and metal is pain-free when it hits you in the head. All the boys were asking, “How much blood was there?” There’s young boys for you- the bloodier the better. They were very impressed by the three rags and then some drenched in blood. And so, for the first and last time in my life, I was a celebrity. I was ‘That-Kid-Who-Sliced-Her-Head-Open-And-Got-Blood-Everywhere’, which is a great title.
I still have the scar. It’s up next to my left eye, a thin white line and a slight indentation. The incident taught me to be cautious and not do stupid things like spin in circles near sharp objects. I think it’s also one of the reasons why I haven’t broken a bone yet. It’s also a reason why I will never be a doctor: I hate medical situations now, too. Movie gore? I don’t mind it at all. Fistfights? Whatever. But surgery? Cue me hiding in a dark, isolated corner with my hands over my ears and my eyes shut.
In addition to the scar and the caution, I also developed not a fear but an avoidance of filing cabinets. When I see one, even now, I tend to skirt around it, which just goes to show how much a childhood incident can change you as you grow.