Crashing Out

Had I known how prophetic my sweet, adorable new puppy's name would be, I would have called him "True Love" or "Winning Lotto," or at minimum, "Great Sex with Disease-Free Stranger on A Gondola in Venice." But no, I had to name him Crash - short for Crashanova, because of his lover's nature and the unexplainable propensity to literally "crash" into everything - the ground, table legs, people legs, car tires... you name it, he has tried to lay down on/in/around/under it.

Crash's favorite crash-out activity is to come to a full-stop, from top racing speed, flat out on his tummy, legs splayed to the four winds - creating a mishmash of grass stains, dirt and poor unsuspecting bugs who have met their demise under the perfectly round belly of my Dorkie -- my daschund/yorkie 4 month-old darling.

Crash is also, as his name might imply, fearless. Now, by "fearless" I do not mean to say he is courageous - no. I mean he is fear -less: born without the natural instinct to avoid large objects such as running lawnmowers, moving vans, racoons and... me. The singular talent my darling furball possesses is the uncanny ability to place himself between the bottom of my just lifted foot and the floor beneath. This may not seem so astounding, as he is very close to the floor already, weighing in at just under 7 lbs, but this particular pooch can be in another room, far from the action, and within a moment only capturable by special high-speed shuttered cameras, can present himself between my swiftly descending shoe and the kitchen tile beneath. This, of course, is noted by the imminent shriek of sheer terror and pain that only a puppy can administer to an unsuspecting new mommy-person, thus sending her down a shame and horror spiral.

I am a horrible mother, I think to myself as....

And that's it. That's the extent of this puppy-mommy's memory of what turned out to be a "crash" of epic proportions. Having no memory of the actual events between 8:pm and 3:00 am last Saturday night, I can only sleuth out the details through random clues I have discovered since the incident now known as, "Deb's Closed Head Injury (CHI)" - otherwise known as a concussion. I have no memory of what I was actually doing prior to my death-spiral, but through careful examination of the wide-open cupboards and 1/2 full dish drainer, I must conclude that I was performing the rare function of actually putting the dishes away before using them out of the drainer again (cupboard space could be rented out to someone [a neighbor with kids, maybe?], as they are nearly always empty due to an appalling lack of preplanned food shopping and a tendency to buy last minute things that can be eaten out of the carton, thereby leaving the dishes in the drainer until, sadly, they must be rinsed off again to remove the film of dust).

So here I was putting dishes away (purportedly) when my darling dasher must have decided to once again demonstrate his devotion by putting himself in harm's way... maybe as a litmus test to see the level of my motherly instinct to protect him - even from my clumsy, sleepy, irritable, dish-wielding self. The next thing I remember is waking up fully clothed, on my bed, with a terrible headache. "Hmmm... I think to myself, I must get up and take some pain reliever or I will have a headache in the morning!" Sitting up, I immediately become violently ill (this is the part where the calming male voice comes on and says, "viewer discretion advised"). I hurl myself toward the bathroom and... well, hurl. "Damn," I think, "I can't be getting the flu - I don't have time for the flu!" Unable to stay awake, I stumble back to bed and pass out for another 3 hours.

When I awake at 6:30 am, I am accutely aware of a terrific pain in my right collar bone - not an ache, mind you - a searing, jabbing, white-hot throbbing that sends me once again to the bathroom. This time I check myself in the mirror. My nausea is still there, ready to take over, but I stand in front of the sink mirror and gently pull aside my shirt (thinking to myself a number of thoughts: "Why am still dressed? What the hell is going on with my head? What bus ran me over?"). I notice the golf-ball sized bruise on my collar bone first, then as my head begins to throb anew, I notice the nice little goose-egg above my right temple.

"WTF?" I say outloud. Then, I must lay down.

It seems that, according to the husband of Cami, the friend I called to take me to the ER, I am a candidate for assisted living. At 40. Yeah... where I come from we call that "marriage" until you're at least 75.

So what does a single, surviving (if not exactly thriving), woman do in these situations? Here I am in the Emergency Room - 6 hours, multiple X-rays and a cat-scan later- being told I need to stay with "a responsible adult" for the next 48 hours.... I look at my friend, Patrick, who has been called in to "spell" my friend Cami who brought me to the hospital hours before, and think, "well, who the hell here could fit that bill?"

What is a "responsible adult" anyway? I guess I know what it means in this situation, plain and simple: someone over 21 who is not on Oxycontin... But, really, how can we say that any one of my friends is a "responsible adult" more than me - the One Woman Wonder of Queen Street? How could anyone be more responsible than mommy dearest to 2 small dogs, 2 kitties, a house with a yard full of growing things (the 100-year old Gravenstein apple tree will have to wait for another entry -- suffice it to say that 5 lb apples dropping from record heights to litter the yard on an every-2-minute schedule is enough to drive a solo homeowner NUTS). Back to the point: how could I be any less responsible than anyone else? Yes, okay, I had a bad head injury and a cracked collar bone requiring heavy meds - but still - I am a SOLO ARTISTE. I can handle the %$^% the universe flings at me like a monkey at the zoo, so why do I need a babysitter for a simple concussion (with total amnesia)? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the 12 year old ER doctor refused to believe I did not indulge in street drugs and demanded a urine sample. I must assume it came out clean, because a). I don't do drugs and b). it was never mentioned again and I was released from the ER holding cell after a mere 7 hour visit.

So I take my wounded pride, my wounded head, my crac ked collar and my prescriptions and pile myself into Saint Patrick's car. We head over to Fred Meyer to fill said RX and get some supplies needed for the next few days of bed rest: soup, juice, olives (?) and some fabulous kind of cookie Patrick talked me into. Needless to say, decisions like food supplies should not have been left to me... or Patrick. Patrick proceeds to convince me that the hummus and cottage cheese I had gathered were much more economically sound when purchased in 5-gallon tubs from Costco. So we collect my prescription and head home.
We arrive back at my house where Cami has returned with the felon in question, Crash the puppy, who cries, whimpers, squeals, and wiggles to the extent that the Cuteness Meter is past red and broken completely. I immediately decide to have amnesia about his role in my current condition. Patrick drops me off, effectively transfering babysitting duties, and heads of to Costco. Still at a total loss at to what exactly happened the night before, and why I have concussed myself and cracked strange, out-of-the-way bones, I investigate the evidence: open cupboard doors... a puppy "wee-wee" pad slid across the kitchen floor and out of place... and worst of all: a phone record on my cell which is cold, hard evidence that I was unconcious while making return phone calls...
Yep. It appears that I concussed myself some time before 9:01 pm, when my cell phone has a record of an incoming call that was not answered. Then, mysteriously, there is an outgoing call placed 8 minutes later... to the number showing as the incoming caller. Hmmm... I do not recognize this number, but obviously called them back - AND - proceeded to have a 7 minute comversation with whoever picked up on the other end. Oh. Crap. Who was this mystery phonemate? What did I do? I frantically look through my phone book, my papers on my desk (3 inches thick and ordered in what I like to call, "as may arise"). Finally, I come across a match. "Ken's Tree Service." That's right! I think. I had expected them that day and they had not arrived to give an estimate on the trimming ordered by the city to avoid the untimely... head injury of a passing school child on the sidewalk in front of my house (the irony does not escape me). Aparently, Ken himself had called at 9:01 to apologize for being trapped in Mt Baker all day and could they reschedule for the next day? Well, my unconscious but somehow fully functioning self proceeded to call him back (the 8 minute lag inbetween calls I can only attribute to my dazed and confused, Oscar-worthy, waking scene in my kitchen - slowly coming to and dragging myself, military-under-barbed-wire-style, to my cell phone to see who called. Now THAT is work ethic: even unconscious, I will responsibly return a call). When Tree-Trimming Ken was interviewed the next day, from my sick bed, he described to me in detail the coherent, lucid conversation I had with him the previous night, where I had said I would "be busy and most likely gone" during the day but he was more than welcomed to come by and give an estimate. Hmmm... again, I think to myself: "Did I know that I would be 'busy' in the emergency room of St. Joseph's hospital? Was my uber-functioning brain pre-planning for my soon-to-be-incapacitated self?" I can only answer: um, yeah - I guess so.

Meanwhile, Patrick and his girlfriend, Linda, return with Costco-sized tubs of hummus and cottage cheese and my 72-hour life as a confined invalid begins. Crash curls up on top of me under the afghan as I lie drugged on the couch, pretending to watch movies and nibbling on the 3 pound bowl of cottage cheese placed before me by my angelic babysitter and former student, Mays.

And there I lay. And here I am two weeks later - one giant head bruise and black eye wiser, one cracked collar bone healing as if touched by angels - and still wondering: "what the hell actually happened?" Unfortunately, Crash the puppy is as inarticulate and clueless as I am... and still underfoot. Now, however, I just don't put the dishes away anymore.
Problem solved.

Crash's new middle name is "Fat-Free Tater Tot." I live, as always, in hope.