My recent broken shoulder reminded me of a prior accident that happened a few years ago. This is the story of that particular occurance.

My new chair is too high. “How can I work when my feet barely touch the floor?” I got up and tried to adjust the little lever underneath, but it wouldn’t budge. What now?

I plopped back down to think about it. That is, I meant to plop down. Suddenly, I realized the chair was not where it should be. “What is my chair doing over there?” I wondered as I felt myself falling to the floor in slow motion.

About that time, I was conked over the head by my desk. I wondered if I could get up before anyone saw me sitting on the office floor. Too late. The noise attracted attention, and people started coming to see what happened.

“Oh, you are on the floor. Let me help you up.”

“I am okay. It didn’t hurt too much,” I lied.  “My chair rolled away while I was sitting down.”

“You are bleeding!”

Bleeding? I looked down and my shirt was covered with blood. My hair was wet, and then I realized I must have hit the desk harder than I thought. I grabbed handfuls of Kleenex as the blood dripped from my hair.

People get excited when they see blood. I decided to move the medical show to the ladies room before I finished ruining the carpet. I was going to have to go home. I couldn’t stay around the office looking like the victim of an attempted homicide.

I called Honey with the good news. “I think I need to go to the ER,” I said. “Can you get off work and take me?”

“I need to see a doctor,” I told the receptionist at the hospital.

“What is your complaint?”

I thought it would be obvious since my hair was dripping blood and my shirt was soggy. Did she think I always looked like Dracula’s daughter? I was scaring the other people in the waiting room.

“I fell and hit my head.”

“Did you black out?” This would become a popular question before it was all over.

A nurse came and whisked me to a room. Apparently, you don’t have to wait if you are bloody enough. They asked me again if I had blacked out, had a headache, had blurred vision, and all the usual stuff.

“No, no, and no. I’m just bleeding.”

They decided to wash the blood away so they could see the wound, a stellar idea.

Nurses and medical people came in and out of the curtains. Finally, they told me I had an abrasion and did not need to be sewed, glued or stapled. If I became dizzy or felt worse, I should return.

The thought of staples in my head was worse than the pain from the injury, so that was good news.

Any time there is an accident at the office, we are supposed to fill out an incident report. I thought it could wait until I was out of the ER.

My helpful co-worker decided to do it for me. When saw it later, I was shocked.  “She fell and there was blood on her head, blood in her hair, blood on her hands, and blood on her shirt.” Good grief, couldn’t she just say I fell and hit my head and had a minor injury?

Apparently, the word spread fast. When I returned a day later, people who saw the incident report or got word on the office grapevine were asking how I felt. Has everyone in the building heard about it?

I heard many bloody stories about muggings, children that fell off bicycles, grandmothers that fainted and hit their head, stories of friends, relatives, anyone that ever had a bloody accident. I was up to my eyeballs in bloody stories.

What a thing to be known for, knocking yourself in the head. I need a chair with brakes on it so it can’t roll.

I may now be the only office worker in town who wears a hard hat at her desk.

Copyright 2014 Sheila Moss