Several of you got the personal recitation of these events. For those of you I have yet to get around to, here's how the Ides of March 2018 unfolded pour moi.
I unwittingly chose the day to close out the car lease on my 2015 Toyota Highlander. It was fully maturing in May, but Toyota of Santa Monica was looking for the car early, especially with my super low mileage. I had been speaking to them off and on, exchanging wants and needs and desired monthly fees. It was a good day to do the deed.
I guess Marc Antony thought the same thing.
Okay, these days, car sales and leases have become a very easy process. And totally internet-driven. If the dealership doesn't have the car you want, they will find it at another place. And, so was the case of the car I wanted. Same model. Three years newer. A suitable color---silver. And a monthly payment less than what I was paying for the 2015. Sweet. Let's do it.
Well, they found my new vehicle but it was currently residing at Toyota of Hollywood. No problem. I would drive my old car home. They would have the new car driven over to Santa Monica and then my sales rep would bring it to my apartment for the grand swap. Easy peasy.
So, at 530PM that afternoon, we started the process of moving the junk from my old car (CDs, paperwork, Hollywood Bowl seat cushions) to my new car. So far, so good. I was in love with my new Highlander at first sight.
Now my apartment building is on a slight slope. And, as a result, the first floor garage is on a slight slope. This means some of the side-by-side parking spaces are separated by small curbs. You can easily miss one if you're not careful. Indeed, my Toyota guy did. I told him to be careful.
Fifteen seconds later, I missed another curb. I fell forward. Probably no more than three feet. I was approaching the passenger side of the new Highlander and the door was open. My head. Door jamb. Whack! Full force.
The initial pain was quick and horrible. But, as I stepped back, I looked down at my hand. It was soaked with blood. My entire face started to feel wet.
Anybody who has raised a small and active child is painfully aware of what happens when the kid cuts his head. It bleeds profusely for several minutes. You think you are dying. The head is nothing but vascular material. And so, too, was mine. And the floor of the garage began to resemble the back seat of JFK's limousine from 11/22/63 sans the bouquet of red roses.
I had nothing but my hand to hold up to the wound. Since that would work for about two seconds, I grabbed the only object nearby to stop the bleeding.
The paper foot mat that you get with all new cars.
Holding this Toyota of Santa Monica branded tourniquet, I headed up to my apartment while the car guy continued to move my belongings. I figured I could more easily arrest the bleeding upstairs. Or simply die more comfortably in the recliner.
I looked at the fresh gash in the bathroom mirror. How could so much plasma pour out of such a little hole? But I could tell it was deep. With the bleeding subsided, I put a Band-Aid on and went back downstairs to finish the car swap. Then I grabbed a bucket of water from my next door neighbor to wash away the blood. So many spots had already dried. My DNA is in this building's garage forever.
I ran into another neighbor who was the second recipient of my now-going-viral tale of woe. She suggested that hitting my head in that manner might leave me a bit concussed. She reminded me that there was now an urgent care facility at the new Century City mall a block away. I didn't feel concussed, but, having never been concussed before in my life, I was no expert.
Well, the mall doctors couldn't help me. The biggest emergency they can handle is a sinus infection. Here's some Flonase, good night. So, the very first ride in my spiffy new Highlander was to the emergency room of St. John's Hospital, which is, by the way, the same place I went after my last garage incident---the fractured kneecap. As I drove to the hospital, I thought of two things. One, I could see very clearly and it was unlikely that I had a concussion. Two, given my history with the garage, perhaps it was time to start parking on the street.
With my past experience, I can tell you that St. John's is a top notch health facility primarily because virtually all of the people working there speak fluent English. Since I had driven there perfectly, they didn't want to waste my time and money on a CT scan. The simple test for a concussion would suffice. And that is basically the same test that cops administer to see if you're DUI. Or so I have been told.
"Touch your nose with your finger."
"Touch your nose with your other finger."
"Stand on one leg."
Yeah, I was fine. So I laid on the gurney and did my own mental capacity check to pass time---I engaged in four different text conversations at once. I called my personal trainer to explain in advance why he would find blood stains on my sneakers during the next day's workout. Yes, I definitely was fine.
Now it was time to fix the new hole in my head. The physician's assistant thought about gluing it together, but she guessed that every time I would raise my eyebrows, the Krazy Glue would separate. I reminded her that I live in Los Angeles, which causes me to raise my eyebrows probably a thousand times a day.
Yep, I would get stitches. For the first time in my life. I suddenly thought about that scene in the old movie "Kramer Vs. Kramer." Dustin Hoffman's kid falls in a playground and has to get stitches on his face. You watch the process and it is clearly uncomfortable to view. Oh, my Lord, that's going to be me.
Eh, not so much. My physician's assistant was terrific. She numbed it with some forehead novocaine so the actual adventure of getting three stitches was relatively painless.
But, wait, I'm not done. After pronouncing me good to go, she said I should see my regular internist to get the stitches removed in about five to seven days.
Um, I'm on a plane to NY five days from now. She grimaced. Any sooner might not be enough time for me to heal completely for any future flawless head shots. Check with your doctor.
I did so Friday morning. I called and asked his nurse if it was okay to get stitches removed after just four days.
"ARE YOU KIDDING? THAT'S TOO SOON!"
Er, thank you for clarifying your opinion.
My mind was aflutter as if I really did have a concussion. What do I do now with my impending trip? I'll have to spend the first two days there scouting around for some butcher to pull out somebody else's Frankenstein handiwork. Crap.
Then I heard the NY weather forecast for my trip. Cold. Wet. Maybe even a bit slushy.
Done. New York will always be there. And so will this scar. But, perhaps by waiting, it won't be so "Elephant Man" hideous. I postponed my plane ticket.
And, only several days later did I realize that all this had happened on the Ides of March.
Yeah, I'm a believer now. Beware them.
Dinner last night: Orange chicken and rice.
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