Third degree burns to lower left leg from a gasoline fire at age 25.
Monday, May 21, 2007
CASE # 1280
I lost four fingers last year while working on a truck. I slipped, and went to brace myself and put my hand into the fan belt.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
CASE # 1279
I had brain surgery November 3rd 2005 because I used to have a seizures and I had a scar on my brain. It was in Rochester New York. I was in 10th grade at the time and I was out of school for 4 months. I had a tutor come after the first month. It was on a Thrusday and I left the hospital the following monday. I had 49 staples on my head and now have 5 little titanium plates in my brain. It was in the part of the brain called the hippocampus. I'm all good now and I'm still allowed to play sports. And I would love to be in this book of yours unless you already published it.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
CASE # 1278
Not stupidity.
On a bright (sober) Sunday afternoon, I walked into school for an early afternoon meeting. As I walked in through the front lobby doors, something caught my eye. Could have been a familiar car passing by, a pretty girl I'd seen before, or maybe a sound.
When I turned my head back, I was greeted with one of the green concrete poles.
6 stitches.
1 painful memory.
CASE # 1277
During my junior year of college, I worked at Common Ground, your typical slightly pretentious, poetry Wednesdays, on-campus coffee shop.
After burning myself several times on barista, I was demoted to sandwich girl.
Every morning I woke up dreading the lunch rush. Hundreds of cranky, stressed-out students waiting in line to talk to me about ham, apple, cheddar sandwiches and fruit smoothies.
One Monday, after running out of cheddar, I was sent to the stock room to retrieve more. The stock fridge was purchased in 1982 and had never been serviced. No one told me about the loose glass on the sliding door that wasn't quite attached to its frame.
Because the fridge was washed as seldom as it was serviced, chunks of crusted peanut butter and hunks of provologne clogged the track. Treating the shortage of cheddar as the emergency it was, I blew through the stock room, grabbed 3 more blocks of cheese and used all my strength to ram the fridge door closed as quickly as possible.
So quickly in fact, that I had no time to feel the tip of my left thumb get chopped off and stuck between the fridge's glass and frame. Of course, I realized this upon my return to the gag noises and green faces of my fellow Common Grounders.
Looking down to check if my fly was undone or something, I realized how profusely I was bleeding all over the cheddar. The cheese fell to the ground and I went into mild shock.
Collin Drylie, the barista on duty, caught me before I fell over and suggested we try to find the rest of my finger. Sure enough, there it was, stuck in the stock fridge amidst wilting spinach and chocolate milk cartons.
At the hospital, the doctors said the nub of my thumb could not be saved. They bandaged me up and told me it would grow back.
They were right. Four years later, my thumb has regrown a patch of skin that is both discolored and void of feeling.
Perhaps the whole experience was foreshadowing to the lactose intolerance I developed the next year. I still can't look at cheddar cheese.
After burning myself several times on barista, I was demoted to sandwich girl.
Every morning I woke up dreading the lunch rush. Hundreds of cranky, stressed-out students waiting in line to talk to me about ham, apple, cheddar sandwiches and fruit smoothies.
One Monday, after running out of cheddar, I was sent to the stock room to retrieve more. The stock fridge was purchased in 1982 and had never been serviced. No one told me about the loose glass on the sliding door that wasn't quite attached to its frame.
Because the fridge was washed as seldom as it was serviced, chunks of crusted peanut butter and hunks of provologne clogged the track. Treating the shortage of cheddar as the emergency it was, I blew through the stock room, grabbed 3 more blocks of cheese and used all my strength to ram the fridge door closed as quickly as possible.
So quickly in fact, that I had no time to feel the tip of my left thumb get chopped off and stuck between the fridge's glass and frame. Of course, I realized this upon my return to the gag noises and green faces of my fellow Common Grounders.
Looking down to check if my fly was undone or something, I realized how profusely I was bleeding all over the cheddar. The cheese fell to the ground and I went into mild shock.
Collin Drylie, the barista on duty, caught me before I fell over and suggested we try to find the rest of my finger. Sure enough, there it was, stuck in the stock fridge amidst wilting spinach and chocolate milk cartons.
At the hospital, the doctors said the nub of my thumb could not be saved. They bandaged me up and told me it would grow back.
They were right. Four years later, my thumb has regrown a patch of skin that is both discolored and void of feeling.
Perhaps the whole experience was foreshadowing to the lactose intolerance I developed the next year. I still can't look at cheddar cheese.
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