The Garage Attacked Me

I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.

Dear Ellen,

Because life hasn’t been crazy enough at the Silver residence, last week the garage attacked me. It was a Tuesday. Tuesday was the same weekday that my husband’s drump truck encounter took place. That’s proof enough that on Tuesdays, the entire family should stay at home all day and sleep. Just like the morning of dump truck Tuesday, this Tuesday had been a really good day. All three kids were in school. I picked my mom up and we went running around town, knocking out errands. We had lunch at her house and then I left a short while later to pick the baby up from her preschool program. Up to that point, everything was great. And then I pulled into the garage. And that’s when it all went downhill.

 

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I got out of the car, opened up the rear door and pulled the baby, who was half-asleep, out of her car seat. I turned, caught my foot on one of my husband’s tools, tripped and went down. The whole time I was holding onto the baby with dear life, terrified I was going to drop her. She was fine. I was hurt. Both of my knees were very angry with me and the inside of my right leg felt like it was on fire. I put the baby inside the house and went back out to grab her backpack. Once we were back inside, I took her upstairs to put her down for her nap. On the way up the stairs, I looked down at my leg and and noticed there was a hole in my pants. It did not look healthy. I put the baby down for a nap, went into my bedroom and took my pants off. Ellen, there was definitely a hole in my pants. Not only that, but it matched the hole in my leg.

 

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I grabbed a wash cloth from the bathroom, and put pressure on it. Then I grabbed the phone and called my mom. Then I called my husband who wasn’t at his desk. So I called the Batline (emergency number).

 

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Someone from his office tracked him down. He called less than a minute later.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Come home. I cut myself on something in the garage and I need stitches.”

“What’d you cut yourself on?”

“I don’t know. One of your tools! Come home!”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

Shortly after that conversation the adrenaline wore off. I felt dizzy, light-headed, and nauseated. It was fun.

My mom walked into the house through the garage door. “Hi? Where’s the blood? I was expecting a trail of it in the garage.”

“It’s not really bleeding but it’s bad. I need stitches.”

“Let me see.”

I showed my mom the injury.

“Yeah….that’s not good,” she said. “But it’s also not that bad. It’s maybe a ten-minute procedure.”

“Good to know.”

My husband came home about 30-minutes later. “Where’s the blood?”

In case you might inquire Ellen, blood is apparently a big thing in my family.

“I’m not really bleeding but it’s bad.”

“She’s going to need stitches,” my mom said.

“Let me see.”

I showed my husband the injury.

“Cool. Let’s go.” He led me toward the garage which I thought was ironic since the last time I was in the garage things didn’t go well.

 

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My husband helped me into the car and off to urgent care we went. The doctor and nurse’s took a look at my leg.

“I have two questions for you,” the doctor said. “First, how did this happen?”

“I tripped over some tools in garage when I was getting my baby out of the car and fell.”

“It was my fault,” my husband said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It was the baby’s fault. My maternal instincts to protect her at all costs kicked in.”

The nurse looked at me, horrified. “Oh my, God. Why would you say that? That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t going for humor. I was going for sarcasm.”

 

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After a moment of awkward silence the doctor asked, “And for my second question,” he pulled out the paperwork I filled out in the waiting room. “Do you really drink 12-15 cups of coffee a day?”

 

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“That’s way too much coffee,” he said.

 

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“I have three small kids….”

“So do I,” he said.

Ellen, why do men always feel they have the same qualifications as women? He might have three small kids but odds are good he’s not the one waking up all night, every night with them. His spouse/significant other is.

“I mean,” the doctor continued, “with the amount of coffee you’re drinking a day you might as well snort cocaine, it would be safer.”

“Does my insurance cover that?”

 

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The worst part about needing stitches wasn’t the actual stitches. It was the local anesthetic the doctor injected around the injury. Fortunately, the anesthetic worked fast.

I held my husband’s hand while the doctor stitched me up. At one point I looked over at him and felt grateful that he was here with me. Eleven weeks ago, he almost wasn’t with us anymore.

After the stitches, we drove to the pharmacy so I could get a tetanus shot. Apparently, if I had the shot at the urgent care office, my insurance wouldn’t cover it. But, if I drove to the pharmacy they would cover it 100%. It made no sense to me but I needed the shot so away we went.

While we were at the urgent care office, my husband took a picture of my injury which sparked a conversation about what is and is not appropriate to post on social media. He’s not on social media that often so I felt the need to explain a few things to him. However, since learning of my injury, many friends have asked to see it so I’m going to hyperlink that image to the picture below. This picture was taken before the stitches. 

WARNING!!! If you click on the picture below you will see my injury. It’s not attractive. I don’t recommend you look at it if you have a sensitive stomach.

 

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That’s all for now, Ellen. Thanks for listening.

Sincerely,

A. Marie Silver

 

Thanks for shopping Snark, Sass, & Sarcasm! I’ll see you next time.