satan’s garden stool

The following is a story I can finally tell, because enough time has passed for us to recover. It’s long, and it’s not for the faint of heart. But it’s worth it. Brace yourselves. 

I always thought that I would remain calm in an emergency situation.

That I would be able to breathe cooly into the phone like the people they featured on Rescue 911 when I was little. {Between this and unsolved mysteries, we had our television night made.} In said emergency situation, I would remain so calm, I would be featured on Rescue 911 as a model case. Never mind that the show no longer airs. I would be so good, they would bring it back. And I would be reunited with the responders and we would have a picnic while our kids played calmly in the background and we reminisced about the time they came to our aid. This would be spliced with actors who are eerily similar, but slightly less attractive than the real deal to reenact the entire thing. {It would be in our contract to make us look good.} And they can show how I was calm. Forever bonded in our amazing 911 phone call. And they would ask why I never went into the health profession, in an interview because I was that good. I would chuckle, calmly, and explain that I was called to do other things while I gazed, misty-eyed into the horizon, then I would toss a ball to our {non existent, well trained} lab sitting in the background with our subdued family as the camera panned out, because it was also, so very calm.

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I feel like I was trained well, every single year of my elementary education. We would all sit, shoulder to shoulder in awesome cool flower vests paired with pleated Guess Jeans with zippered legs and Keds. The air was thick with excitement because that day was fire safety day.

Fire Fighters came and told us exactly what to do. And their instructions always started with “Stay Calm”. When they came for one particular visit, I even won a free smoke detector. Except they called my name to receive it in front of the entire school, so I kind of panicked, and pretended I wasn’t there. Trauma. That should have been a nice little preview as to my total inability to actually stay calm in randomly occurring emergency situations that require immediate medical attention. Let alone socially awkward ones.

Everyone has their talents. Mine is maybe writing or making things look pretty. Wheee! The following story is about something I’m not good at: The time I had to call 911 to arrive at our residence, and I did not, in fact, stay calm. Because it is not, in fact, a talent of mine. And despite my best intentions, I’m like a cat in said emergency situation. Stuck in a flaming box. Hurtled over a waterfall.

Because that night, I went absolutely bat crap cray, and I’m probably every first responder’s worst nightmare.

They say people have their stress thresholds before they hit a level of panic. JK I just made that up, but it sounded important. Because my threshold ends at paper cut.

It was mid March, and it was still cold… after dinner. The kiddos were settling down for the night, quiet in the living room watching Spongebob. And I had escaped to the computer to finish up a few emails before the day had ended. It was then that I heard a crash, and it came from our closet.

I knew that Jamin had dissappeared into our closet. For what, I had no idea. With all the kids in sight I didn’t react at first, because I figured he had it covered. We were good. I think I even rolled my eyes. So when he called me, I was a little annoyed, because I was in the middle of a very important sentence.

“Hey Ashley,” he called.

You know that moment when someone calls you to help clean up something, but you don’t really want to go because what you’re doing in that moment is like, way more important? Type type type, I worked quickly, trying to hash out that last thought… and I didn’t reply at first. I figured he needed help cleaning up a mess that I wasn’t too keen on getting to.

But let me also establish how different we are: So as you can see, I didn’t notice the subtle inflections in his voice.

Using this official chart as a general, well established guide, we can see that I usually react to perilous situations by general screams. Jamin calls them Defcon levels 1 and 5 with no in between. So the situation can either be a. My pinky toe has been dislocated right after the toenail was ripped off, or b. there was a small house spider in the kitchen.

In my defense, he doesn’t usually react right away to my requests either, because see chart above.

It was then that he called me again, though still fairly even and controlled, his voice reaching a different level: “Ashley, I need your help now,”

It was then that I reluctantly left my spot at the computer, and sauntered into the closet.

And it was here that I’ll pause this little story, to establish two things about Jamin:

1. The man has great intentions. An adventurous soul, I was all, “That’s hawt,” when we first met, with his rugged, all American look. He’s an athlete, an outdoorsman to the core, and loves things like repelling. Hiking. Camping. Things that require endurance. He’s mentioned sky diving several times. And climbing Mt. Everest.

That’s cute. ::Pats head::

My idea of roughing it is staying at The Holiday Inn and using the in-room coffee maker. Sorry not sorry.

2. While it’s probably kinda morbid to make an educated guess, Jamin will not die in something adventurous like say, climbing Mt. Everest. He’ll probably train for Mt. Everest, and then trip over a lego, on his way to leave for the airport. And hit his head on an end table. We’re in agreement here: While he has good intentions, this is very dangerous when we combine them with this simple fact: He’s accident prone.

Throughout the history of our almost thirteen years of marriage, he’s denied it for years. But two broken ankles requiring surgery, multiple toe fractures, and countless other incidents that I’ll stop mentioning here, and he’s finally been forced to face the truth. Thus the reason I didn’t really react at first, when I heard that muffled crash coming from the closet.

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This combined with my complete lack of grace, {because no one ever said I’m perfect} and the verdict is that the offspring don’t stand a chance.

Poor sprogs. But back to the closet.

Because in I walked, totally inconvenienced, and what I saw before me was like nothing I ever expected: There was Jamin, clutching his leg.

And it wasn’t his usual leg. Because he was clutching it in places that were… fleshy. Like something off that stupid horror movie you shouldn’t have watched when you were a teenager that now gives you nightmares because you’ve discovered that just like rollercoasters, you’re too old for that crap. And I’ll stop here to spare you, but you know that moment in Shark Week where you cringe and look away from the screen?

It looked exactly like that. And that was what I didn’t understand.

“What took you so long?” he asked as I took in the scene before me. There was shattered porcelain everywhere: the remains of what I now realized were that of our garden stool in the master closet, and he lay on his back with his leg elevated, holding it together.

“I’ve cut my leg and it’s bad. I need you to call 911”

“What happened?” I stared at him confused. As if I could fix it with a bandaid if only I could understand.

He may as well have been speaking another language, because I simply stared at him like an idiot, completely dumbfounded. Shocked.

“I stepped up on the garden stool trying to reach a blanket and it collapsed. I fell right through. I’ve cut my leg. It’s bad. I need you to call 911… And get me a towel,” he added as I turned on my heel to go find my phone. He was addressing me like I was five, in an effort to stay calm, as if there was no other adult present in the house.

There may as well have not been, because I’m pretty sure my kids would have stayed calmer. I stumbled around the house for a minute, found my phone, and the panic rose in my throat.

“And it broke?” I asked, as I hurried back in. I was so confused, I’m not sure shock quite describes it. Because he was holding his leg and it looked awful, but he wasn’t really bleeding.

“Ashley. I need you to call 911. I can see the bone”

You know that moment when you’re standing in the water at the beach, and a big wave comes right before that breaking point, and instead of turning sideways, you’re an idiot and turn into it, and it pulls you under so that you’re taken off guard and you come back up sputtering with seaweed hanging out and your throat on fire with sand in your special places, cursing yourself for being an idiot? This is what panic feels like, when it hits you. And I officially morphed into something I’m not proud of: See trapped cat. On fire. Hurdling over Niagra Falls.

“Why were you standing on the garden stool?!” I was becoming shrill.

My train of thought, and the entire situation, derailed a bit like this:

Unlock the phone. Why are my fingers trembling so much?! The longer it took, the more I realized he could actually bleed to death, right here. Why can I not unlock the phone? Why did I ever lock it?! This is so stupid!!! Phone finally unlocks while Jamin tries to wretch it from my grasp beneath me.

Dial 911. 

Not 999. Not 991. 

Not 411. That’s information. 911.

FREAKING trembly fingers!!! Officially panicking. Exasperated guttural noise reflective of my own incompetence 3rd try. 911. 

“I could really use a towel,” Jamin reminded me. So I ran around aimlessly, almost in circles, looking for a towel. You know it’s bad when you start running in circles. That’s like panic level: Head explosion.

But not the nice white towels. A towel…  He needs a towel! “Oh my gosh are you bleeding out?!” I yelled at him while I chucked towels onto the floor, my hand trembling waiting for the operator to pick up on what felt like the third ring which is the equivalent to an eternity… I ran with a towel at Jamin. 

If we had guests staying at our house who needed a towel to dry off with, it would have been a plethora of towels with puppy-eaten holes, and towels with tears and old towels from our thirteen year old wedding registry. That would be all I could find. My husband cuts his leg off, and white was all I could get my hands on to offer him. This will be gross like from a movie because you can see the blood better on white. It’s okay. White towels save lives.

“Do you need me to hold it?”

Jamin all the while, stayed completely calm. He was sweating a little, and his face was white. But he was calm. I realized if the roles were reversed, I would be alternating between illicit words that shouldn’t be repeated, breathing like I was in labor, screams that I was passing into the light, and blacking out. Jamin was actually holding it together in a scarily stoic way.

Our voices caused curiosity from children who were otherwise oblivious, sitting in the next room. Because I’m not the calm mother who keeps it together to shield her children. I’m the idiot mother who yells and panics. And now complicating the situation, were their distressed faces looking on as they tried to make sense of what on earth happened to their dad.

“911 how may I…”

At this point there was no need for specifics. I started spouting our address so that they’d know where we were, first. That’s what they always said to do on Rescue 911, right?

Only our address isn’t anything simple like 22 Apple Drive.

I could write my address here, but I won’t. And I realize if you’re ski mask wearing psychopath welding an axe who wishes to kidnap and murder me for whatever lame reason, you can easily look me up. {Remember before doing so, that we have two giant, ferocious dogs and various weapons of self defense because of the impending zombie apocalypse. Duh.} But let’s humor us all right here while I give the equivalent of our address to illustrate my point. Because trying to say it under pressure is like reciting Peter Piper really quickly about five times with your mouth crammed full of marshmallows after spinning around the room on a baseball bat twenty times.

“15479 Burndannon Circle,” I spouted into the phone. I realize at this moment, I still was not calm. The voice had reached a level of shrill capable of breaking glass. “My husband has fallen through a stool and cut his leg.”

“He may be bleeding out!” I added for urgency. It sounded important, at least. The bleeding out part. Like they could drive faster if I used the words ‘bleeding out’ so they would take me seriously, because the accident sounded so very lame. In short, I’ve seen too many doctor shows.

“State your address again?”

“15479 Burndannon Circle,” I said again, as clearly as possible.

“15321 Cunfannon Circle?”

“15479 Burndannon Circle,” My voice had risen to a new octave equivalent to that of a dog whistle.

“Please hold”

Seconds passed…

New person: “Where is your location ma’am?”

“15479 Burndannon Circle,” and I realized in that moment that they couldn’t find us. All because of some lame copywriter in charge of street names when they were cooking them up in the development stages. And bad street mapping in new neighborhoods. Who is responsible for this ridiculousness?! I wanted to nail said copywriter over the head with a ceramic garden stool so they could try to call 911 from our address after I kidnapped them and brought them here just for that purpose. Moments of incompetent revenge are how I roll in the coping mechanisms department.

“Please hold”

By the time the third person asked the question, I was screaming. I’d completely lost it. I couldn’t tell if I’d been transferred to someone in our area, or if they just couldn’t understand. Or why they couldn’t type it in like they always demonstrated on the show into their magical computers. Because when you’re a child, anyone who saves other people are magical and therefore must have magical tools to do so. Don’t they have some locator so that kids can’t prank call them? Because my brother tried it from a pay phone once when he was little, and let’s just say the cops weren’t happy and they had a special talk with him and the rest of the soccer team outside of Pizza Hut when they magically appeared. I needed that now. Stupid untraceable smart phone.

“Please tell us your address,”

“15479 BURNDANNON CIRCLE!!!”

Cue crying younger children in the background who see their dad in pain, and their mother who has gone bat crap, emblazoned cat over a careening waterfall from which there is no return, crazy. We were all going to die.

I’d officially lost it. And to my embarrassment, I realized this was probably being recorded. And documented forever in the secret magical realms of all things saved 911 recordings on a secret super computer underground. Where they save stuff for trials and other incriminating evidence. That thought actually went through my head. They would use this when they had me in court, blaming me for Jamin’s death because it’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s a complete psycho. Gone Girl in reverse. Coverage from Nancy Grace and everything.

I looked down, and Jamin who was not satisfied with the white towel and the idea of messing it up, had found another towel in the dirty laundry. He’d also been calm enough to reposition himself away from our rug in said closet, so that he wouldn’t get it dirty. He was that calm. He was that thoughtful. He even offered to take the phone out of my hand, and talk to the emergency worker who waited patiently on the other line. Uh, I guess you can say there’s a reason we balance each other so well?

By the time I hung up, and relocated the kids to the back, reassuring them their dad was going to be fine and mommy just lost it because she doesn’t even like skinned knees. I told them the cool firefighters were coming and they were going to help and they could watch for them if they wanted to. I called a friend to sit with the kids, and then my mom who lives farther away. I needed them fast, and I’m pretty sure I freaked them out, too, because my nerves were officially shot.

Shhhh. Remember, my threshold is paper cuts..

Jamin, all the while, seemed fine. For someone who had just suffered a shark bite injury in his own closet.

There was that moment where I knew help was on the way from the rescue workers and my friend and mom. And I breathed a little while making sure he was okay. Then there was that moment from Jurassic Park, where the kids are hiding in the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief, when they realize there’s another raptor in the room.

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Because I looked down and realized I was wearing no bra. And I was in my pajamas. But not the cute pajamas. Ill-paired pajamas in the form of a paint covered shirt and badly fitted yoga pants with scary hair. And swollen face. Because I’d been freaking out on the phone to 911 who couldn’t find us. The house was a mess and medical people probably couldn’t get a gurney in the back. And the pups were freaking out and needed to be crated. And the kids were still crying. It would have helped to stay calm. But I’d launched myself from slightly incoherent to over the top, give-her-a-happy-pill stage.

I’ve always wondered what happens to people in emergencies when they aren’t properly dressed. Being dressed is important. “Have you got this?” I asked the still-in-control Jamin while I lept over his elevated leg in the closet. Jamin was fine, considering. Pale, but fine. He nodded. So I gave in to my control freak, panic attack tendencies, and threw on a sports bra and a decent shirt. I needed to not look so scary. I mean, hello. The world may be ending and I may have traumatized my children, but a gal has to put on some proper skivvies. And maybe a little mascara after the kids had calmed down, if I’m being really honest.

Priorities.

By the time they got there, I’d cleared what I could so they could make their way in, and I looked like a laundry welding zombie with shaky hand eyeliner probs. At least no one could see my lady bits.

My mom who was able to watch the kids, bounded through the door after she made a 25 minute drive in ten because now that I remember it, I did a fantastic job of also freaking her out. I passed her as I followed the gurney on the way out. A great friend who works at the hospital met us there.

After at least 5 hours at the hospital – 3 in trauma surgery and we-don’t-know-how-many-stitches later, Jamin was okay.

{Ambulance selfie = More priorities.}

Three things we learned that night:

1. PSA: Don’t stand on garden stools. They are made of ceramic and will collapse. We will probably never own another one because we now make cross signs and hiss at them when passing such abominations in stores. People think we belong to a weird cult.

2. Freak accidents happen and we take a lot for granted. I spent the next month walking around our home, picturing inanimate objects attacking our children. Socks are scary. Frames can fall. And it took me a while to want to shower in our bathroom next to the giant plate glass. Everything can kill us.

3. Sports bras and a touch of mascara are important in times of distress – A little dignity and control can go a long way. I have no idea what to put after this to make it sound better because clearly I have issues. So we’ll just leave it. Riiiiiight here.

The surgeon still has no idea how Jamin missed every artery, important muscle and avoided breaking bones. He was walking a little around the house, three days later.

And I still have no idea how he stayed so calm. Oh wait… it’s because one of us had to.

{the next morning. Kiddos who were glad to have their dad back in one piece.}

***And just an update, because we couldn’t make this stuff up… We totally scored our reunion when we actually met one of the awesome firemen who showed up at our door that night, {after I wrote this post} – none other than the husband of a sweet reader, now-friend! I was able to explain that I’m not a complete psycho. Things like closure are important, after all. ;} I sound like I was a few eggs short of a functioning Easter Basket in this post. That’s because I was, but we have so much to be thankful for. We realize accidents happen like this every day. We’re also forever grateful for first responders and our nurses, doctors and surgeon who do what they do every day, because it’s pretty clear we could not. Thank you. And sorry for the elevated defcon voice levels.

We’re ready when you are for our special feature show, Rescue 911. We’re ready when you are.