Accident Prone

I've often thought about writing an autobiography, but I've got this huge problem with memory gaps so undertaking such an endeavor would be a huge challenge. I had an epiphany that maybe I could write an autobiography based on an accident time line since everybody tells me I'm so accident prone. I can remember my accidents as far back as the age of three until just last year, and it's only because they have been so weird and wacky that I have this great recall. To give a little hint of the weird and wonderful nature of my accidents, I can tell you that I've embedded a toothpick in my foot that needed to be removed in emergency by a doctor; walked head long into an eye-level tree branch; scratched my eye with a Christmas tree; fallen on a chainsaw; and tumbled head over heels over the handlebars of my bike.

My best accident, however, is the one I wish to write about here. To begin this story, I need to back up to a point in time six weeks before the really funny accident. In 1988, I was attending a drop in center which held weekly activities, one of which was swimming. Did I mention I love swimming? Not only did I love swimming, but I was fascinated and really into diving. I started out learning to do an ordinary pike off the one meter board, and slowly progressed to a back dive. I was proud of myself as my diving repertoire was self taught. Eventually I learned to do a blind back flip which meant that as I did a complete revolution in the air, I was not able to see the diving board. I would guess that I had probably done this dive one hundred times before I decided that I wanted to show off to one of the people who had gone to the pool with me. There I was, standing all primed and pseudo athletic like on the diving board, dipped my knees down slightly to start the board in motion, jumped up, started my rotation, and then . . . "WHAM!" I had underestimated the distance between me and the board, and hit the board with my head.

One backboard and one ambulance ride later, I arrived in the Emergency department of our local hospital. Fortunately for me, nothing was broken. I was hurting pretty bad though. I visted the chiropractor twice a week, attended physio three times a week, and walked around in a neck brace while I waited for my neck and my pride to heal.

Skip ahead six weeks later. I've completed six weeks of physiotherapy and visited the chiropractor numerous times to repair the damage I had done with my diving. Now, one would suppose that after an accident like the one I had, that I would have been reluctant to return to the diving tank, but I, being a little bit on the stunned side, could not let things be.

I dove and I dove. No back flips this time. I'm not that blond!

On my last dive for that day, I pulled myself out of the water and up onto the lip of the diving tank. To understand what I'm about to tell, you need to think about what most public pools look like - every pool has about a twelve inch ledge that rims each pool and has approximately an inch of water in it. So, I pull myself out of the diving tank and, being extremely lazy, decide that I am going to walk along this lip instead of moving over a huge twelve inches to assure myself solid footing. One foot in front of the other, back to the diving board I go, and then . . .

CRUNCH!!!

No, not my head! . . .

One leg went into the water, and one leg stayed out causing me to slip and place one hundred and sixty pounds onto my. . . what's the word I'm thinking of . . . pivot point? No, that's two words. Ah, yes. My crotch!

I can envision all the men out then groaning and grabbing their private area, but I've seen women have the same reaction. And, yes, it does hurt!

I haul my body out of the water, holding myself in an oh-so-important place, and head over to the life guard. As I walked, I left distinct footprints because I had lacerated myself. Approaching the lifeguard, through a fog of incredible pain, I muster my sense of humor and ask her: "Do you have a band-aid?"

Incredulously, she says, "What did you do this time?"

I didn't realize I had made such an impression the last time I was at the pool. I trekked off to the change room as it was obvious there was another emergency trip in my future, and prepared to change . . . sort of. I now faced the dilemma of how was I going to wear the pants that I had come to pool in. My problem was not so much the laceration, as being female, that was an easy one to solve. My difficulty revolved around trying to put on pants when I was in such an incredible amount of pain, and further, how I was going to walk when every step reminded me that I was hurting so bad. In the end, the solution to this problem involved walking with a peculiar gait, pants undone, sagging just enough down my hips so as to not chaff there as I walked.

About forty-five minutes later I'm lying on an emergency room gurney. The doctor has frozen said parts, and is very carefully sewing things back together. Well, I, being young and still holding fast to my sense of dignity, was extremely embarrassed. It was far easier to imagine that the doctor was not there and was not looking at areas that were so private. This illusion of privacy was quickly shattered when the doctor looked up and said (and I swear these are his exact words) "I don't think it's going to scar bad."

I still chuckle thinking about this and now, it serves to alleviate the embarrassment I felt at the time of this accident. When I tell people this story, I always add that it really wouldn't matter if it scarred because I wouldn't be able to see it unless I had some complicated mirror set up.

Then again, I would probably hurt myself doing that too.

Oh, did I mention yet that I was supposed to learn how to downhill ski that weekend? Needless to say, I did not get to go skiing, but maybe that's a good thing.