(Every Friday I interview a different person and share that interview with you. Perhaps they will be a fellow author. Perhaps one of my neighbors. Maybe the bagger at the grocery store. A member of my family. A follower of this blog. Maybe it will be you! Hey, it could happen.)
Consider today's INFF post the "After-school Special" of INFF. It is a cautionary tale, one meant to warn and educate the masses against the dangers of... well... just dangers. You'll see. And, when you're finished reading my very self-centered tale of courage in the face of horrific experiences, you can click on the INFF button on the sidebar to read previous installment of INFF that are actually, you know, enjoyable.If you'd like to be interviewed for "I Need Friends" Friday, shoot me off an email: friends at sarahmeden dot com!
Alright. Here we go.
Alright. Here we go.
Tuesday was a day not unlike many others. A mysterious flu bug had taken the children down one at a time. I'd spent the previous night and that entire morning cleaning up after them while being insanely ill myself. You know, typical motherhood.
I was laying back in the recliner, dozing between the sounds of my children proving to me that they were still too sick to do anything but lay on the couch and moan/sleep/make "messes." I'd been undertaking the same moan/sleep/make "messes" approach to life for about 18 hours and dehydration-induced delirium was quickly setting in.
I'm not exaggerating. Delirium, as in I was completely out of my mind sick. Incoherent. Glassy-eyed. Crazed. Delirious.
I heard a knock at the door. Despite being in the den of vile illnesses, I thought to myself, "If someone is knocking on my door, I have to answer it. There are no other options." This should have been sign #1 that I absolutely should not have answered the door. I mean, c'mon, ignoring people at the door/on the phone/sending spam emails is always an option, right? In that moment in my state of mind, there was nothing to be done but get up and answer the door.
So I pulled myself out of my sickrecliner (as opposed to sickbed--get it?!) and stumbled to the front door. A respectable-looking, college-aged young man stood on the other side. He very politely explained that he was earning some money for school by cleaning out people's gutters. While his sales pitch was going on, this was my quickly deteriorating thought process:
"I really don't feel good. I REALLY don't feel good. I need to tell him to come back later. How would I say that? I can't really think of the right words. If I throw up, that'll probably make him think I'm a jerk. (yes, I actually thought that). I don't even understand what he's saying anymore. I really, really don't feel good. Must talk to guy. Must talk now."
Then I started attempting to talk to him. The look on his face probably should have told me I wasn't making any sense, but still I persisted. (For purposes of picturing the poor guy's facial expression: it was somewhere between "Is this lady drunk" and "I am pretty sure this lady is having a stroke." Got it? Great. Back to the story.)
I then cycled through these thoughts in quick succession:
"It's hot. I'm sweaty. I think I'm gonna puke."
I don't remember anything after that. At all.
I came-to face down on the concrete of our front porch. "Why am I sleeping on the porch," was my first thought. Yea. Like I said--I was a little delirious.
Then the sound of that poor young man, saying "Ma'am? Are you okay? Ma'am?" in a very panic-stricken voice tipped me to the realization that something was significantly wrong. I somehow managed to piece together the fact that I had passed out.
This is the point where I started apologizing to him repeatedly, because, apparently, passing out is a sin of quite heinous proportions. He helped me back into my house and back to my recliner of sickness. He managed to hand me a paper towel--I was bleeding, you understand, having face planted onto concrete. He very kindly waited for me to get in touch with my husband, then left with a quickness that made me wonder if perhaps he was on the track team.
My husband came directly home. My daughter kindly informed me that my face looked broken. My son pointed out that my leg was bleeding. A lot. Only after about 20 minutes did I start to feel the pain. Thank goodness for the numbing effects of shock.
We believe the order of injury was thus: I hit my chin on the wrought iron railing on the porch, then my face on the concrete. As I went down, my leg slammed into the step from the door onto the patio. My self-respect died somewhere in the midst of all that, as, I imagine, did that kid's desire to be a door-to-door salesman. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say he just went home for the day. That's what I would have done.
*ridiculously bruised & swollen chin-->
(you can't really see the swelling, but let's just say Jay Leno would be jealous of my chin-fabulousness right now; this picture was taken Wednesday afternoon--it looks even more pathetically colorful than this now)
<---*cut & bruised leg
*2 loose front teeth (They aren't so loose that I'm at risk of them actually falling out, but I'll need to have them x-rayed to check for root damage. Yeah!)
*a lifetime of therapy for a poor college student who was just trying to earn money for tuition
Now in the tradition of INFF, we will visit the portrait gallery:
The guy at the door while I was "talking" to him:
The guy at the door after I regained consciousness:
Today's takeaway lesson: If you are really, really sick... don't answer the door. You're not gonna make friends that way.
SME: *cue exit music* Well, this has been a very special installment of "I Need Friends" Friday. Come back next week when I will actually make a friend!!
I am looking for anyone and everyone, whether or not you think you are interesting. You'll get a fantastic stick figure portrait of yourself, a little promotion (if you're looking for that sort of thing) and the opportunity to tell your friends and family that you've been interviewed by SME, er... by ME!