An unexpected trip to the hospital

Eureka!

When stumbling upon the spacious garage attic – a stone’s throw away from our Cape Cod-style home – as the ideal location to create a secluded retreat for myself, I shouted out the same exclamation as the Greek inventor and mathematician Archimedes when he discovered a method to determine the purity of gold while taking a bath.

Although there was excitement in the air, I didn’t run through the streets naked as a jaybird like the famed Sicilian, according to legend, after making my monumental discovery.

However, I did share his passionate enthusiasm.

Following the latest attempt at securing a coveted piece of real estate to call my own with the little house on the prairie debacle, this would-be pioneer walked into the cinder block outbuilding contemplating his next move when he glanced up into the rafters and spotted the perfect solution to a very perplexing quandary.

What a perfect place for my new hideout!

Shortly after finding an old-fashioned painter’s ladder leaning against the wall next to a corner workbench on the opposite side of the double garage bay, I expeditiously climbed onto a suspended storage rack – constructed with several two by fours – hanging from a pair of ceiling joists before taking a gander at the space in question.

“It’s hard to believe this was here the whole time,” I contemplated while admiring the magnificent discovery. “Considering there’s already a partial floor, it’ll take me little to no time to create a sizable floor plan; and then I’ll be able to move up some random pieces of furniture to make it more comfortable.”

Now it was time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Immediately after retracing my steps back down to the cement floor of the two-car garage, I quickly sorted through the neatly stacked pile of lumber in front of the discarded sections to my original clubhouse; whereupon I began placing several prime cuts of wood on the nearby suspended storage rack prior to putting them on the partial floor covering the ceiling joists.

Upon depositing a plethora of timbers into the attic space, I sauntered toward the sturdy worktable to retrieve a hammer and some nails to begin the arduous task of laying the groundwork for a plywood floor.

Without warning, a random plank fell from overhead causing me to duck out of the way; but unfortunately, my noggin ran directly into the lawnmower handle rendering me unconscious for a few seconds.

With blood dripping from a gash above my left eye, I regrettably was forced to put my grandiose project on hold while scurrying up the sidewalk between the cinder block garage and the church parsonage to notify my parents that an emergency room visit was in order.

Due to a case of mild cerebral palsy, I was like a ticking time bomb which could go off at any given moment; so, Mom and Dad were experienced triage technicians with cat-like reflexes.

They sprang into action at the sight of my blood-covered forehead.

Within a matter of minutes, I was sitting in the back seat of the family station wagon with my little sisters as the blond-haired minister found the shortest route to Ellwood City Medical Center.

After pulling up to the trauma center entrance, a diligent orderly with a wheelchair in hand hurriedly helped me into it before going through a set of automatic double doors to the first available examination room while my close-knit family remained in the waiting room.

Faster than a speeding bullet, a handsome young man – who resembled Clark Kent with his thick, jet black hair and stylish spectacles – strolled through the entrance of the sterile space to access the damage for my latest trip to the medical facility.

What have you done this time, Marcus Welby, M.D.?

“My head slammed into a lawnmower handle,” I professed when explaining the circumstances behind this most recent trip to the ER. “While building a private clubhouse in the attic of our garage, a lone two-by-four came hurling down from above; but when I tried to move out of the way, that grass cutting machine came out of nowhere.”

That’s definitely going to leave a mark.

Hardy har-har!

“You need to start being more proactive,” chided Dr. Benjamin Knight as he began disinfecting the wound prior to putting in the sutures. “Although I enjoy our time together, I’d much rather see your comedy routine at Lincoln High School auditorium; so, you need to promise me that you’re going to be more cautious from here on out.”

Now you sound like a party-pooper.

I just don’t like seeing you get hurt.

Alright already.

Pinky swear!

As soon as the emergency physician finished putting in a total of six stitches to close up the deep gash, which was just under my left eyebrow, he asked one of the charge nurses to inform my kinfolk that I was almost ready to go home; whereupon he retrieved four Charms Blow Pops from a clear glass container on a nearby shelf.

It’s safe to come in now that I cleaned up your prize fighter.

If this would-be Rocky Balboa had listened to me, he would’ve followed through with a punch before dodging out of the way.

Maybe he’ll remember that the next time he takes on a lawn mower.

Everyone’s got jokes!

“On a more serious note,” commented the good doctor after passing out hard candy lollipops to all the youngsters, including one for our big brother John. “While I intended to order a CT scan, I didn’t think there was any need for further diagnostic testing with this cool cat; but he does need to take it easy for the remainder of the day.”

That members-only club will have to wait for another day.

Now you’re going to have a matching scar from when you fell – face first – off the ‘cafegymatorium‘ stage during gym class in third grade.

“Yeah,” quipped Kathleen as she hastily unwrapped the cherry-flavored candy. “You’ll look like the Bride of Frankenstein with all those scars on your face; but that will come in handy on Halloween.”

Who are you people, Job’s comforters?