The Scooter Incident

Last fall I was scrapping with my favorite crew, the Spicy Chix in Glastonbury, Connecticut. Karen, my favorite red-head and inspiration for many of my pages was desperately trying to craft a two page layout about a story she felt needed to be told. Her challenge? A whole lot of story and not a picture to be had about it. She tried desperately to make her story fit onto just two 12x12 pages, but try as she might it wouldn't work. I am not sure what happened to this layout, but I came away from this asking myself, what stories do I need to tell?

One story immediately came to mind and I think after hearing it, you will agree with me that it is a very good thing there are no pictures to be had. This story has been regaled many times since it happened in 2004 and now, thanks to my friend Karen's inspiration, I am telling it. Like Karen, my story, even with out photos, would not fit on a 12x12 page. I came up with the next best thing - a mini album!

This story has often been referred to here as "The Scooter Incident" or sometimes just "The Incident". Here's the story:

It started out so innocently. All I wanted to do was take part in the fun that everyone else was having. How did I know it would turn out so terribly wrong?

Let me set the stage. It is February 2, 2004. Andrew, Mark and I have travelled to Amy and Kirk’s condo in Newbury Park to help celebrate my mom’s 81^st birthday. I am cooking and Amy is providing the house and all of the provisions. My nephew, Brian has also joined us. So the entire cast includes: Mark, Andrew, Amy, Kirk, Annabelle, Ian and Brian. Laura couldn’t join us as she had to stay in San Diego for rehersals for a play that was opening the next week.

{Inserted here is the only photos in the album - a collage I made of photos of everyone from near that time period}

It is early in the afternoon, too early to start dinner, and as is typical of Southern California in February, it is gorgeous outside. Everyone decides to go outside, including my mom and the twins, Annabelle and Ian. The twins are taking turns riding their tricycles on the sidewalk outside of their condo while my mom and I walk with them. Everyone else is hanging out near the garage.

As I was walking along the sidewalk with my mom and the twins, Brian comes toodling around the corner on a motorized scooter. I could tell by the smile on his face that he was having a blast. Next thing I know here comes Mark with the same grin of delight.

Never wanting to miss out on any fun, I motion to Mark to come over and let me ride the scooter. Keep in mind, I have been on a motorcycle maybe three times in my life, and never in the driver’s seat. After less than 30 seconds of instrruction, I confidently zoom off back in the direction of Amy’s garage. As I approach the garage, I am gripped with the horrible knowledge that I had really not understood Mark’s directions about stopping this thing. (This is vaguely reminiscent of when Andrew was born and the doctor informed me that I was about to have a Caesarian section and I realized at that moment it was too late to learn everything I should have paid attention to in Lamaze class.) Here again, at 30+ mph too late for a refresher course on braking.

Slow motion now begins to take over in my memory for the next few minutes. Andrew, Kirk and Brian are standing directly in front of the garage, what was to be my final destination. As luck would have it, further down the alley a small truck begins travelling directly towards me. While I am aware that not only do I not know how to stop, I am also travleing way too fast. These realizations come at the exact moment I feel the truck is barreling straight for me and I, of course, steer to get out its way only to over-steer and end up meeting the pavement first with the front of my face and then bouncing and skidding onto my right side.

Please note that much of the next thirty minutes or so I have no recollection of and have had to rely on my son, who continually tells me he will be forever traumatized having seen his mother be road fodder right in front of him, as well as my husband, who when I regained consciouness just said, “don’t ever do anything like that again!”

From what I have been told, shortly before my spin on the scooter, Amy had gone upstairs to her condo to pour cocktails for everyone. Yes, you read that correctly, there was no alcohol involved prior to “the incident”, although I have since learned there was much consumption by everyone other than myself many hours later.

As I lay splattered in front of Amy and Kirk’s garage, Kirk ran up the stairs and the following interaction took place:

Kirk: “Gaye fell off the scooter. Where is the phone?”

Amy: “Who are you calling?”

Kirk: “911”

Amy: “Why?”

Kirk: “I told you Gaye fell off the scooter.”

Amy: (rolling eyes) “Is that really necessary?”

Kirk: “Your aunt is out cold in front of our garage. Yea, I think it is necessary!”

I am told that cocktail production stopped abruptly at this point while the Ventura County parmedics were called. Meanwhile, my 81 year old mother is downstairs trying her best not to have a heart attack as she watches her only remaining living child lying in a pool of blood while her 3 year old twin great grandchildren are standing by her side.

Very soon thereafter not only the paramedics arrived, but also the sheriff and the hook and ladder truck from the fire department. Unfortunately I am still out cold so cannot really get a good look at any handsome firemen that were on the job. I am transported to the Los Robles Medical Center via ambulance but not before everyone is questioned about alcohol intake as well as possible domestic abuse. No one is amused.

About the time that the ambulance rolls into the ER entrance, I am beginning to wake up and am overwhelmed by the pain, particularly the throbbing in my right hand. As I try to bring my hand around to touch my face, I am quickly stopped by a nurse who tells me that I have been in an accident (no shit) and that I should not try to touch my face. I told her I wasn’t trying to touch my face I was trying to figure out why my hand was hurting so much. At that point the nurse looks down at my hand and says, “Oh, you just lost a bit of your finger that’s all!”

Believe it or not, as shocking as that was to both see and hear, I knew at that point, I was very lucky, and if the worst thing that was going to happen was that I would lose a portion of my finger, I would probably be okay with that. I was mostly upset because the finger in question was my ring finger and I always liked the way my pearl ring looked on that finger.

Over the next few hours I was xrayed, scanned and questioned more than once about all manner of things, mostly about whether or not Mark had ever hit me. I’m not sure if it was how ludicris that question was or the pain medication they were giving me, but every time someone asked about domestic abuse, I would start laughing, the questioner would scribble something on the chart and run out of the room. I think they finally figured out this whole incident was all of my own making and that I had no one to blame but myself.

Thankfully, a wonderful plastic surgeon happened to be on call that night. He was very concerned about stitching up the lacerations on my face. He kept saying, “I know this is a beautiful face, and I would like to get it back like it was.” The shots to the face to numb me from the pain were no picnic but the result was well worth it. Except for a small discolored place above my lip, there are no real signs on my face of “the incident”. I am reminded of the scooter incident every morning when I use make-up tohide the discolored spot on my upper lip.

Amazingly, when I told the plastic surgeon that I was concerned about losing my finger, he told me I had nothing to worry about. Sure enough, he skillfully rejoined my finger and with exception of a slightly shorter appearance than the corresponding finger on my left hand, there is nothing that appears different about my injured finger.

I left the hospital about six hours after my arrival and went back to Amy and Kirk’s. My mother couldn’t stop hovering and while that would normally drive me batty, I knew that I had scared the beejeesus out of her that day and so let her dote on me. We had not planned on staying the night, but after such a draining day, no one was ready to leave at such a late hour. Mark and Andrew slept at my feet that night, although I don’t think anyone really slept that night. We set out for home the next day in what felt like the longest and bumpiest car ride ever. All I could think about was how soon we could get home, get the prescription for the pain meds filled and for me to be out of pain.

Did I learn a lesson? Maybe. I won’t ride on a scooter anytime soon, but I can’t promise there won’t be another trip to the ER after some other adventure. Afterall, what is life but an adventure?