I should start by saying that after my head wound, the following week our cat, Jessie, had a massive abscess on her belly that required 13 staples. Justin said, “is this going to be a weekly thing? Are we just going to keep having bad Fridays?
Bad things happen in 3s, so this should be the last of it.
I will start by saying we are all ok.
Yesterday, Xander had gymnastics. Justin and I take turns driving him, but since Shea wanted to go dress shopping (she’s decided she wants to wear more dresses), we all went, so we could stop at the mall after gymnastics.
Dresses were purchased. Bracelets were purchased. We were on our way home. Since we live pretty far off the beaten path, our drive home requires around 15 miles on a country highway. As we were coming up to a church, I saw a car waiting to take a left turn from a side street. When suddenly, a gold SUV came flying up on the car’s right side and…HOLY SHIT IT’S TURNING LEFT!
I swerved as best I could, without ending up in oncoming traffic. But it was no use. We were hit. And spinning. Or rolling. I wasn’t entirely sure. It felt like we were a pinball, being shot between other vehicles on the road. It turns out we were actually rolling across the highway. We slid a bit. And finally stopped. Upright (which is probably why I thought we had only been hit a lot). “Is everyone ok?!?!”
The kids were in the back. In car seats. Folks, if there was ever a reason to keep your children in car seats as long as possible, this is it. Our children were in high-back booster seats, with seat belts, and they have cuts and bruises. That’s it. They asked if they could please get out of the car.
Justin was in the passenger seat. That’s right–I was driving (insert “female driver” jokes here). And he was hyperventilating. “Are you ok?!” One part of me was thinking, “oh my God, he’s been impaled, or seriously injured,” and the other part of me was thinking, “stop making that obnoxious noise!”
“Are you ok!?” He finally responded. “I can’t breathe. It hurts to breathe.” But as fast as he was saying it, he was unbuckling and jumping into the back of the van.
Outside the vehicle I hear, “is everyone ok?!” I finally took it all in. We were sitting upright, in the grass on the opposite side of the road. “We’re fine!”
I have dealt with depression for close to 30 years. It’s a part of me. I don’t love it, but I have accepted it.
Today, I had an appointment to “establish care” with my new doctor. Also, my antidepressants aren’t working (my couch and I are best friends).
The appointment started out great! My doctor is amazing, which is a breath of fresh air in the military world. She took all of my concerns seriously, and after suggesting a medication switch, she asked, “are you open to the idea of therapy?”
Heck yeah I am! I’ve had some great therapists in the past, as well as a couple not-so-great. But sometimes, it helps to talk to someone who isn’t your husband, listening to your stories of woe for the 3,000th time. My doctor immediately called the head of behavioral health, so I could meet her.
My appointment continued to go fabulously. She looked at my head wound (I had my stitches taken out yesterday, and now I can look right down into my soul).
Then the head social worker from behavioral health came in and introduced herself. And…have you ever just gotten a bad feeling about someone.
She asked questions: I’ve seen a therapist off and on for the past 16 years. Honestly, I saw my first therapist/social worker/brain helper when I was 10, which really makes it more like 26 years. More off than on–I have gone years between therapists. I said, “I really only saw therapists when I was pregnant and couldn’t take antidepressants (there was nothing fun about pregnancy), or when my husband was deployed.”
This social worker then tells me what I really need is to learn how to self-help, and I can’t just rush off to find a new therapist at every new duty station. I said, “well, I did that in college–I learned how to deal with my panic attacks, and I no longer have anxiety.”
She wasn’t done. “Right. But you now need to learn how to do that with your depression. You shouldn’t have to have a therapist on speed dial.” My doctor (a woman I have literally known for 15 minutes now), jumps in and says, “I really don’t think that is what she’s doing.”
Social worker: “well if she’s seen a therapist off and on for 16 years, I would say that is what she’s doing.”
At this point I’m wondering what I did to wrong this woman. Finally, she leaves. And the second the door closes, my doctor looks at me with wide eyes and says, “I am so sorry. I have no idea what that was! That is not at all what I was expecting, and had I known that was what she was about to say, I would’ve just referred you off post.
My doctor then said, “I did not get that impression from you at all. You know what, I don’t even want you to see her. When she gets you in for your initial appointment, you tell her you would like to be seen off post. I am so sorry!”
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for the record, I have never had a therapist on speed dial, although after that encounter, I sure did wish I had my former therapist on speed dial, just so I could tell her about this mind blowing encounter. Even better: when I told Justin that, he said, “actually, I do have her on speed dial, if you want to call her up.” I just might, because this is the type of WTF moment that I would’ve gone to see her about in the past, just to hear that southern drawl come back and say, “I’m sorry, she said what?!”
The point of this is, I am entirely secure in my depression. I am well aware that it runs in my family (shout out to every cousin, aunt, mom, sister, who also inherited this). Shame on that woman, in the mental health profession, for bullying anyone!
So, anyone out there who has ever felt bullied by a doctor or therapist or anyone else, you go out and find yourself a more supportive healthcare professional. Because, while it might be all in my head, this chemical imbalance is not something that any amount of “self-help” will cure. I spend sunny days outside, and I exercise (ok, so I have been too depressed to exercise lately). While those activities might assist in boosting my mood, they will never fix me completely.
But would you tell a diabetic they should really work on self-help, and quit relying on insulin??
Home ownership is dangerous. Ok, for most people, it probably isn’t, but when you’re awkward like me, most things become dangerous.
While you northerners are bracing for yet another snow storm, and worrying about ice, here in Alabama, we’re planting grass seed and getting ready to start our garden. Now that we have a house and a yard, why not get a shed!? It makes sense–keep the lawn mower and the garden tools out where you need them. So, Justin ordered us a little 7’x7′ Rubbermaid shed. We’re so hardcore.
Construction was going well. At the start of it, Justin found me a super adorable salamander, and I got completely sidetracked (the kids were going to be home from school in an hour! Obviously, I couldn’t set him free before they saw his cute face).
After finding a small tub, and mud, the salamander hung out on the trampoline, while I went back to assisting with the Great Shed-Build of 2019. Multiple times I joked about how awesome we were at Rubbermaid-Shed-Building: “Justin! We could go into business!” He wasn’t feeling it.
Step 16 called for 2 (smiling) adults, and 2 step ladders. Well, we have a step ladder, I had been using a cinder block for height boosting. While Justin stood on the step ladder, I pushed against the shed, so the beams would stay in place while he drilled them in. Side one: complete. He hands me the screws, and I’m then supposed to screw the beams in from the opposite side. This is the part of our adventure when things start going south. The beams fall. Justin panics, because our plastic rubbermaid shed is now bending awkwardly. I yell that he should probably get the real ladder out of the garage. But, he’s busy holding beams up, so he asks Xander to get him a step stool.
For anyone who has seen Guardians of the Galaxy II, Xander is Groot, in the scene where they ask Groot to find Yondu’s head fin, and Groot continually comes back with more and more ridiculous items. Xander brought Justin a bucket. At this point I tell Justin we need to switch, because these screws are going nowhere, and I dropped it at least 3 times. :::Switch!:::
Now I’m inside the shed, and the beams are only screwed in on one side, and are sitting on a 1/2″ ledge, waiting for Justin. I was just about to step up on my bucket, when BAM! Insert lots of bad words (because, while I only recall yelling “damnit!” Justin said lots of bad words streamed out of my mouth). Justin: “Are you ok?!”
Instrument of Evil
Me: “No! That goddamn beam just hit me!” Justin walked around the shed, took one look at me, and ran full speed into the house yelling, “we need to go to the ER!” I was wiping blood out of my eye and yelling, “no! we need to finish putting this shed together!” He ran out with paper towels, and I grabbed those flipping beams and stepped back on my bucket.
Every time I pulled the paper towel away from my forehead, blood would leak into my eye. Which of course caused me to laugh uncontrollably. Because, we’re building a plastic shed! Justin kept saying, “seriously, Sammi. We need to go to the ER.”
“Justin, heads just bleed a lot. It’s fine! I’m fine.”
Ok, so maybe it’s not fine. The 4 of us piled into the van and headed to the hospital. Where I then had to explain the situation to the receptionist. And then the triage nurse. She made me throw out my bloody paper towels, and wash the blood from my hands (I was covered). As she put a bandage on, I said, “see? I told my husband, heads just bleed a lot!” She look me right in the eyes and said, “oh no–you need stitches. This is just so you aren’t sitting out there with an open wound.” Cool…cool cool cool.
Justin took the kids on some food adventures, while I sat and waited…and waited…and waited. I really didn’t wait all that long, but the waiting room was full of basic trainees, and they were gross (I’m not kidding, the triage nurse came out and yelled at one: “are you here for upset stomach and vomiting?? Are you eating?! No food or drinks! Go throw that away!” And that boy was drinking orange soda and had just finished raiding the vending machine. Mommy taught you nothing).
Finally, I got called into FunLand. And wasn’t I the talk of the ER. “Is that the forehead wound?!” Kid, you know it! See that bandage?! It’s holding my brains in.
Also, Xander told me that he could smell my brains on the ride to the ER. So, I was bracing for the worst.
The ER Doctor takes the bandage off: “it’s bad, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen greasy kids do worse.”
“See?! I told my husband, heads just bleed a lot!”
“Oh no–you need stitches.” No one was willing to let me walk away stitch-free!
The doctor then asked me how it happened. “Well, we were building a shed, and a support beam fell and hit me in the head.” Was this a domestic thing? “What?! No!” At which point, I burst out laughing, because the first thing my Mom said when I sent her the picture was, “what on earth? A shovel?” Yes Mom, it was Sergeant Steeves, With the Shovel, In the She-Shed.
The doctor then asks me if I feel safe at home. To be honest, we still have to put the roof on the shed, so I don’t know how safe I can feel.
Now, this is a military hospital, so that means medics and whatnot. Also, this is the start of a 4-day weekend, so there aren’t a large number of folks working (word on the street is that the average wait was 5 hours in the ER. Public Service Announcement: If you aren’t dying, bleeding to death, or if no bones are broken, don’t go to the ER. It’s an EMERGENCY ROOM). The Doctor sends in PFC Babyface (I asked; he was 20). He told me he was worried I was nervous, because of all of the laughing. Honestly, I can’t help it, this is a silly, silly situation, and what can you do but laugh. He explained what has to happen: irrigation, with this sterile water, that is going to burn like crazy. That seemed silly, it’s water. Oh no. He started and said, “let me know if you need to take a break.” I said, “I think you lied to me–there’s no way that’s water! That’s boiling acid!” It wasn’t nice. By the time that was done, blood was once again streaming down my face. But I sure made his day (“oh man, I’m getting so much good stuff out of this! Wait until you look in the bucket and see what’s coming out of your head!” Blood. Paper towel. and more blood).
Lots of Lidocaine, and 6 stitches later, I was on my way. On the way home, Xander asked if we could hire a contractor to finish the shed, and when Justin and I laughed and said no, he asked that I at least wear a helmet while I finish the build.
It’s a Rubbermaid Shed, people! They shouldn’t be so dangerous!
Thank you Justin, for being the voice of reason, while I just kept yelling, “heads just bleed a lot! I’M FINE!!!”
Also, the salamander was still in the tub, on the trampoline. We said our goodbyes and set him free.
Anxiety is super judgy. It makes everyone stare at you, watching your every move.
Except, none of it is real and it’s all in your head. Your brain is the only judgy bitch in the room.
Today was Thanksgiving Lunch at school. Every year I have to force myself to go, and not be a total freak. Once again, Justin was unable to join me today, so I found myself going it alone. Which makes it worse. I can handle public situations like a boss when I have someone to hide behind.
Even though I fought with myself all morning (I don’t have to go. They’ll never notice), I sucked it up and went. Arriving early, just like they suggested. I signed in, grabbed my visitor sticker, paid, and when they called first grade parents, in I went.
I sat in a room full of strangers, proud of the face that I was doing it, and even though I hated it, I was here. The kids started pouring in. And then I realized what a terrible mistake I had made: Xander is in second grade. I was so busy making sure I survived this trauma, that I panicked and jumped the gun on actually going in.
While the first grade parents were locating their children, and the kindergarten parents were saying goodbye to theirs, I snuck out the door with my to-go container full of Thanksgiving Lunch. I hid the evidence of my failure in my car, took a deep breath and tried again.
Did I survive? Yes. Did I actually eat lunch with my kids? Well, no. But I was there.
As I headed out to my car at the end of it all, my brain announced, “good job–I knew you could do it.” Oh shut up, you judgy bitch. Where were you 2 hours ago when I needed the pep talk!?
Our household goods were finally dropped off last Thursday. Even though we’ve completely unpacked our kitchen, we have no spoons–well, we have 1 spoon. And only 1/4 of our forks. Justin wants to give up on them. I am still holding out hope that we will discover the lost silverware in a random box somewhere.
Before we left Kentucky, our kids received their first quarter report cards. Xander’s read, “takes an unreasonable amount of time completing tasks.” Justin and I have laughed about it for weeks–especially since Justin announced, “if I could write you a report card for life, it would say, ‘takes an unreasonable amount of time completing tasks.'”
I can’t deny it. Justin has unpacked about 100 boxes (probably not, but maybe); I have unpacked about 7. Maybe more, but I don’t know. It’s overwhelming. I hate it. Once a day I think we should just leave the boxes packed and throw it all away. Of course, if we did that, we would never find the spoons!
