I’ve never broken a bone. Knock on wood. I’ve never had an official nosebleed. Knock on wood. Outside of a torn ligament in my finger and some bruises, I’ve never really been injured. Knock on wood. I’m not a klutz. Knock on wood.
Alright, time out.
Why do I feel like some of you stopped knocking on wood after the first time I said it? I don’t appreciate that. My livelihood is at stake. So knock on wood. I don’t care if you have to go to your neighbour’s backyard and knock on their wooden deck to do it. In fact, I endorse doing just that.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Before I go on, I might of had a minor nosebleed a couple years ago, but I still don’t want to classify it as an official one because I don’t know what an official nosebleed feels like.
The torn ligament was an injury I got in Grade 6 gym class while rebounding a basketball. It bent a couple of fingers back. I don’t even remember what hand it was.
But I remember asking my teacher if I could go get ice from the office. They gave me one ice cube in a plastic bag. Magically, water appeared in the bag 10 minutes later and the ice cube was gone. Poof!
Ah, those were the days. Survival of the fittest. Nowadays, they’d probably send the kid home after trying to kiss it better for half an hour.
The next morning, my mom took me to the hospital because two of my fingers were green and purple; I hadn’t been finger painting.
This was during the SARS epidemic so we had to put on gowns, face masks, and gloves, and sit there for 3 hours staring at a picture that said “Saskatoon” on it.
That sign was the only thing that kept us sane. We still mention it.
As for bruises, the main one that comes to mind was when I was a kid playing softball. I normally had good reflexes, but one time when I was pitching, the batter hit a line drive right back at me and got me right in the shin. That hurt, a lot. I stayed in the game, but I remember trying to run after the ball after it hit me and my right leg collapsed.
A player on the other team yelled, “You killed their pitcher!”
Inside scoop: you never forget the moment you die. At least I haven’t!
Oh, and there was that one time on my first ever day of school when I tripped over a hula-hoop.
Oh, and that time I chipped a tooth when I was a kid. But who didn’t do that?
Alright, there’s my medical history. Can I have a prescription for banana medicine now?
Last night, more specifically, Tuesday morning at 1AM, I went in the kitchen to throw a water bottle in the recycling bin. But I leaned over to place it in the bin because if you just drop it in, it’ll rattle around and make enough noise to wake up the whole house, street, and continent.
I’m not exaggerating.
It was a forward lean, which means to straighten up, I had to swing my upper body backwards.
This post just turned into a yoga tutorial. Don’t worry, “Downward Hog” is coming up soon. It’s where we all lay on our stomachs for 6 hours and do nothing.
Well, when I went to straighten up, I banged my head on the corner of the cabinets above me.
Oh my holy socks, I felt so betrayed. I felt like I had just been shoved into a mud puddle by a friend.
Initially, I felt woozy. I leaned over on the kitchen table and grabbed my head with both my hands and wondered why no one had created the technology to rewind life, like we could rewind videos on YouTube.
Then I went to the washroom and flipped my hair up to see the damage.
Alright, follow along gang.
Take your left index finger. Place it on your left eyebrow. Now move your finger straight up your face until it’s on top of your head – the front part. If you went all the way to the middle of your head, you went too far. Come back down the mountain a bit.
Now put your left foot in. Take your left foot out. Put your left foot in and shake it all about.
And that’s where my one inch scar is. It’s on a slant, so in a way I’m basically Harry Potter.
Hey, I did make that ice cube turn into water back in Grade 6. I guess the magic was in me all along.
Tomorrow I practise running into walls in hopes that they take me through to a secret platform of a train station!
I was bleeding, but it wasn’t some old-school wrestling bleeding. It wasn’t pouring down my head. I figured a wet paper towel would work, but oh wait, there wasn’t any left because I forgot to mention, I was also throwing a paper towel roll into the recycling bin at the time of my cabinet collision.
It’s amazing how all the pieces to this puzzle went together and yet a piece of my head was missing.
So I settled for Kleenex and just held it on my head. I was looking in the mirror while I was doing this so I can confirm that I looked like a lunatic. It looked like I was trying to press down on the top of a really tall sandwich.
Hi, I’m Paul, the sandwich.
The blood wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but just enough to keep appearing on every new Kleenex I introduced to it.
Wait, is that what a nosebleed feels like? I’d say my lightbulb just went off, but it burnt out.
So then I start wetting my hair and the area of the cut.
It burned like a disco inferno.
So now I have a cut on my head and wet hair. I should’ve started a Punk Rock band named Ruthless ‘n Toothless and called it a night. But I didn’t.
I was starting to wonder if I needed to go to the hospital to get stitches or a staple. I wouldn’t want a staple, though. I’m more of a paper clip kinda guy. It’s just easier and you don’t have to put holes in anything.
Eventually, there were only small dots of blood showing on the Kleenex so I headed upstairs to sleep because I couldn’t tell if I was about to pass out, or if I was sweating because I was holding my arms up for so long.
You try holding your arms up and pressing your head for about 25 minutes. You’ll get tired.
That yoga position is called the “Hell Raiser”. You raise your arms, heat comes out.
Then I inevitably got paranoid and started asking myself a million questions because why not?
Do I have a concussion? Why didn’t anyone take me to a quiet room for fifteen minutes like they do with players in the NHL?
Where is my ice cube in a plastic bag?
Why am I allowed to walk into a kitchen without a helmet on?
Why couldn’t I be 5 foot 4?
Why don’t we have one of those clearance signs in the kitchen, like they have on the highway for trucks under bridges?
Am I going to bleed out during the night? If I sleep on the left side of my face, will that put too much pressure on my head?
What if I sleep on the right side of my face and all the blood rushes to my right ear?
What if I wrapped toilet paper around my head like they do for injured kids in movies?
Why does it feel like my head hurts?
Oh yeah, I just hit it.
And in between all those questions, I’d grab a Kleenex, wipe my head, and try to see if blood appeared by holding the Kleenex up to my digital clock.
The four times I did that, my clock didn’t provide enough light so I had to get up and turn on my overhead light. What a chore.
There was no blood. It was all in my head.
I woke up today and shared the story with my family. Most of them found it funny and asked for a re-enactment.
By the way, I re-enacted it about 20 minutes after it happened. I had to make sure that when I told the story the next day, it made sense. I also wanted to see if I left any flesh on the corner of the demonic cabinet.
As of now, I think I’m okay, though my head definitely feels like something’s happened to it. Again, that could just be paranoia.
I’m a tad disappointed the scar is hidden under my hair and I can’t make up a story like: I got into a jousting match with a squirrel and when we both got on our horses and charged each other, I ran into a low hanging tree branch.
You know, cool battle stories like that.
I hope this is a one-off incident and it’s not signalling the start of an era where I get hurt often. That would be awful.
I still pull bandages off slowly. I’m not ready for anything bigger than a paper cut.
If you have cabinets in your kitchen, I ask that you boycott them to show your solidarity with me. We can’t let them win. We can’t let them attack us with their sharp corners.
These cheap shots while we’re trying to stand up straight after quietly placing items into a recycling bin, need to stop.
The official hashtag will be #StopThatCab. There is no way this hashtag will be misconstrued for anything else.
By the way, if you went to knock on the wood of your neighbour’s deck, and they caught you looking in the window, that’s on you. All I said to do was knock on wood.
Goodnight. Downward Hog.
What injuries have you sustained in your own home? Have you boycotted any furniture? Are you a klutz*, or a klutz deluxe**?
*Klutz: Your klutzy moments happen intermittently.
**Klutz Deluxe: Your klutzy moments happen often.