I had a bit of an accident during the wee hours of December 31, 2012.
Before you get ahead of me and assume, wrongly, that by the "wee hours of December 31" you think I was prancing around a fabulous New Year's Eve party in an adorable coral dress and Kate Spade heels, let me clarify. The wee hours I am referring to here are the hours between midnight and 5am the day of New Year's Eve. I spent the actual dawning of 2013 fast asleep, concussed and unable to digest any food worth talking about.
We're still not sure what it was. Food poisoning? The flu? God's way of telling me that no one was ready to see me in an outfit that required those paste on bra things? In any case, I found myself tossing way more than my cookies for a good portion of three hours in the middle of the night. I tossed so much that I became faint, as people generally do when they've been party to what can only be deemed a Costco hotdog exorcism.
If I was the sort of person who didn't enjoy people laughing at my expense, I would sugar coat this next bit and lie about how I hurt myself badly enough to warrant nearly one month off work. Good thing for you I am not that sort of person...
The last thing I remember was sitting on the toilet. But fear not, when I came to my pants were up, so I definitely did not take an Elvis-style header off the throne. What I did do, or so we have pieced together through our CSI-like investigative skills, was stand up and faint. I took with me the towel roack, laundry hamper and one vanity drawer. Oh, and I knocked my head on the very hard, very porcelain toilet.
I have no memory of anything except waking up. I remember feeling as though I was being pulled back into consciousness against my will. Wherever I was, I liked it just fine. That is, until I realized by looking around me and feeling the searing pain in the back of my head that something very bad had happened.
And I was right. A severe concussion, my third and by far the worst so far (the other two caused by sports with more street cred but far less comedy) left me with a doctor's note for three weeks off work and instructions to do absolutely nothing while I recovered. Trust me, the people who love me took this very seriously. They checked up on me. Ignored my texts! Took the TV remote with them when they left!
Every day at 9am, my house cleared out and I was left with a rocking chair, a quilt and the view out of my bedroom window. The only entertainment I was provided with was a birdfeeder and CBC Radio 2.
What did I do? I watched birds. I cried. I whined. I wrote blog posts in my head and then promptly forgot them all. I cut my toenails. I wore the same jogging pants for 23 straight days. I ate pie for breakfast. I called everyone I know just to chat. I counted all of the teeth in my mouth using just my tongue, timed myself, and then tried to break that record. I cleaned my closet. I found out that blue jays are very mean birds and vowed to learn how to use a slingshot. I planned the weddings of all three of my daughters (I hope they like lace!). I named my future grandchildren (I hope they like Cecilia!). I learned that even if I am not tired, I can fall asleep if I just keep staring ahead and replay old episodes of The Facts Of Life in my head.
This post was originally aimed to give advice should you find yourself in the position of not being able to use your brain for anything of interest, but clearly I have not achieved that. The only thing I can offer you is my phone number and an enchanting retelling of the episode where Jo decides she wants to become a nun.
**By the way, I am mostly fine now. The recovery process is slow, but I feel better than I have in nearly a month and I continue to listen to my doctor - I'm stubborn but the stupid hasn't been knocked out of me yet.