Just rolling with it
I was in my fourth winter, running errands with my mom. She had bundled me up in layers of wool. I looked like a big, bandaged thumb. Weather would not kill me that day. Nothing would.
For lunch, she took me to McDonald’s. That was back when McDonald’s kept score that “hundreds of millions” had been served. Back in the car, I inquired when they would climb up the pole and clarify that hundreds of millions “and two” had been served. “Probably tomorrow,” my mom said.
Just a moment later my mom pulled into traffic and brought the car to cruising speed in a 40-mph zone. I was in the back seat of her clunky chunk of Detroitsteel. This was in the day before child safety seats. My mom could usually rely on me to secure myself in the lap belt. In this instance, I forgot.
I was doing what children do in backseats. Drowsy, slightly nauseous, I looked up through the window and focused on the utility lines overhead undulating passed like the life lines of an electrocardiogram. I fidgeted a bit. I leaned against the door and it flung open and I fell out.
I rolled and rolled and rolled, like a trailer tire whose lug nuts let loose. I rolled, and as I rolled I thought, “Wow, this doesn’t hurt.” I could sense hard blacktop somewhere out there, somewhere just beyond the epidermis of my wool layers. I don’t even remember being dizzy. I don’t recall being in shock. I recall coming to a stop, looking around and being very confused.
A young couple pulled up behind me and came rushing toward me. I was standing up by then. The man worked his hands on my body like you’d press upon a basketball to determine if it needs more air. I think I hugged him. He looked far off down the road. My mother’s beige sedan was disappearing into the vanishing point.
Other motorists gathered around. My mom was no where to be seen. Years later I learned why she kept driving. She had heard the sound of the door opening in he backseat. She had heard the rush of air. She had turned to see my tiny body tumbling out. She thought: My youngest, my baby boy, is dead. I just killed my boy. I can’t look. I can’t live anymore. So she had locked her elbows and kept driving, and it’s a miracle she didn’t drive off a bridge or something.
Eventually, she did return, around the time when the people tending to me must have begun wondering if a crime had been committed. She held me for what seemed to be an hour. She was a wreck. I was fine.
Back home that afternoon, the news had spread. I was treated like a hero. Neighbors visited. Some brought gifts. The best was from Mrs. Shepherd. She presented me with a Matchbox village that her son no longer played with. It folded shut like a suitcase. To me, near-death experiences had proven beneficial, and since that time I’ve never been one to suffer silently, even if it’s just a sore throat.
Thick layers of wool have since given way to thin layers of polyester fleece as the fabric of choice in cold weather. We dress our son in fleece. I wish fleece were thicker. We cinch his seatbelt till he complains his circulation has been shut down. We loosen the seatbelt slightly to assure he can still wiggle his toes.
I still prefer wool. I still prefer tumbling through life, just so long as I can come to a stop and still be intact.
Last year my wife and I learned I had a lesion on my left temporal lobe (nothing to do with falling out of fast-moving cars). We also learned that once the brain begins having seizures, it wants to keep having more seizures. Indeed, the brain can become horrifyingly efficient at having seizures.
I’m certain it was because I caught my wife in a weak and worrisome moment, but amidst the new reality that my noggin had a boo-boo, I convinced her into leaving a perfectly good house to buy a wreck of an overgrown farm up the hill. A time may come when she'll see the humor in all this. I’ll blame it on my tumble from a fast-moving car when I was 4, my expectation for reward. This place, this small farm covered in thistle, is my matchbox suitcase.
In October we will drive three hours to Boston to an appointment that will determine if I’m a candidate for brain surgery. I’ll wear wool.
But until then, there are six pigs living in our muddy meadow who try to eat my shoes and who serve as a reminder to me each day that I’m unworthy of pity. Other creatures will have it far worse than me this coming fall.
Bang.
Bacon.
Yikes.
For lunch, she took me to McDonald’s. That was back when McDonald’s kept score that “hundreds of millions” had been served. Back in the car, I inquired when they would climb up the pole and clarify that hundreds of millions “and two” had been served. “Probably tomorrow,” my mom said.
Just a moment later my mom pulled into traffic and brought the car to cruising speed in a 40-mph zone. I was in the back seat of her clunky chunk of Detroitsteel. This was in the day before child safety seats. My mom could usually rely on me to secure myself in the lap belt. In this instance, I forgot.
I was doing what children do in backseats. Drowsy, slightly nauseous, I looked up through the window and focused on the utility lines overhead undulating passed like the life lines of an electrocardiogram. I fidgeted a bit. I leaned against the door and it flung open and I fell out.
I rolled and rolled and rolled, like a trailer tire whose lug nuts let loose. I rolled, and as I rolled I thought, “Wow, this doesn’t hurt.” I could sense hard blacktop somewhere out there, somewhere just beyond the epidermis of my wool layers. I don’t even remember being dizzy. I don’t recall being in shock. I recall coming to a stop, looking around and being very confused.
A young couple pulled up behind me and came rushing toward me. I was standing up by then. The man worked his hands on my body like you’d press upon a basketball to determine if it needs more air. I think I hugged him. He looked far off down the road. My mother’s beige sedan was disappearing into the vanishing point.
Other motorists gathered around. My mom was no where to be seen. Years later I learned why she kept driving. She had heard the sound of the door opening in he backseat. She had heard the rush of air. She had turned to see my tiny body tumbling out. She thought: My youngest, my baby boy, is dead. I just killed my boy. I can’t look. I can’t live anymore. So she had locked her elbows and kept driving, and it’s a miracle she didn’t drive off a bridge or something.
Eventually, she did return, around the time when the people tending to me must have begun wondering if a crime had been committed. She held me for what seemed to be an hour. She was a wreck. I was fine.
Back home that afternoon, the news had spread. I was treated like a hero. Neighbors visited. Some brought gifts. The best was from Mrs. Shepherd. She presented me with a Matchbox village that her son no longer played with. It folded shut like a suitcase. To me, near-death experiences had proven beneficial, and since that time I’ve never been one to suffer silently, even if it’s just a sore throat.
Thick layers of wool have since given way to thin layers of polyester fleece as the fabric of choice in cold weather. We dress our son in fleece. I wish fleece were thicker. We cinch his seatbelt till he complains his circulation has been shut down. We loosen the seatbelt slightly to assure he can still wiggle his toes.
I still prefer wool. I still prefer tumbling through life, just so long as I can come to a stop and still be intact.
Last year my wife and I learned I had a lesion on my left temporal lobe (nothing to do with falling out of fast-moving cars). We also learned that once the brain begins having seizures, it wants to keep having more seizures. Indeed, the brain can become horrifyingly efficient at having seizures.
I’m certain it was because I caught my wife in a weak and worrisome moment, but amidst the new reality that my noggin had a boo-boo, I convinced her into leaving a perfectly good house to buy a wreck of an overgrown farm up the hill. A time may come when she'll see the humor in all this. I’ll blame it on my tumble from a fast-moving car when I was 4, my expectation for reward. This place, this small farm covered in thistle, is my matchbox suitcase.
In October we will drive three hours to Boston to an appointment that will determine if I’m a candidate for brain surgery. I’ll wear wool.
But until then, there are six pigs living in our muddy meadow who try to eat my shoes and who serve as a reminder to me each day that I’m unworthy of pity. Other creatures will have it far worse than me this coming fall.
Bang.
Bacon.
Yikes.
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