Blood and Cold Water

One time, I cracked my head open. I might have been seven years old. Our propane tank had four feet that rested on concrete blocks. My siblings and I played on top the tank, and on the garage roof nearby, all the time. 

Somehow, in the midst of my revelry on the tank, I slipped off the edge, sliding to the ground. As I landed, the back of my head snapped back and hit the edge of a concrete block. I remember reaching my hand to my scalp, just like they do in the movies, and seeing blood. 

I truly believed I was dying. The blood was pouring from my head. There was so much blood. I ran into the house. My mom shoved my head in the tub, under the squeaky metal faucet. Endless ice cold water rushed out, soaking my scalp and hair, splashing onto my raggedy shirt, and dripping into my eyes. 

I remember crying, and screaming insanely, "Pray, Mommy, pray!" I was completely distraught. I didn't want to die. I didn't know much, but to my very naive mind, I truly thought my wound was a deadly one.

When my brothers and sister came inside later that day, I was still soaking wet, wrapped in a towel, and clutching some type of popsicle. They stared at me like I had a tree growing out of my head. Maybe I got special treatment for the rest of that night, but I may have misremembered that part. After all, I had been bleeding from my head! 

Nothing else happened. I lived. I'm sure there is a scar somewhere on my scalp that I've never seen. Maybe this is why I am so unique - I actually was dropped on my head as a child!  

My siblings and I (Ezra, me, Zephi, Eli) in our Grandma & Grandpa Wlaschin's backyard in Grand Island, Nebraska. Circa 1990