Let me back up.
Some of you may know that I was enlisted to teach ballet to inner-city kids for this week. It was a daunting challenge, but I was up to it and I needed the money. I arrived ath the Uptown Dance Academy on 122nd street bright and early yesterday morning. I had already eaten a nice breakfast and decked myself out in my professional best. The small slightly shabby studio was hot and stuffy, but the kids were excited to be there, which made me excited about my undertaking. However, once the preliminary business had been taken care of and the introductions had been made, I was informed that I would be teaching BOTH the beginner (which I was scheduled to do) AND the advanced class, COMBINED in this tiny room. Oh well, I'd just make the best of it and try to shoot for a class that fell somewhere in the mid range of difficulty. While it was a challenge to keep them quiet and paying attention, for the most part, things were going well. The advanced kids were probably a little bored, but they didn't complain. I'm sure they understood the challenge I was facing. Things were going pretty well, but I must report that my teaching career has just been cut short by an unknown culprit.
Toward the end of the class, as I was teaching the entire class an across the floor combination, I started to feel a little woozy. My head began to pound and my stomach lurched. I remember thinking "whoa, that's wierd." I thought I had regained my composure, and continued to dance, but in a matter of seconds, everything started to close in on me. My vision became blurred and doubled, everything sounded like I was under water, and balance became impossible. I staggered toward Rufus, the sweet little boy who had been helping with the music, and stammered something like "get someone now, gonna pass out..."
That's the last thing I remember. Everything went black and eventually I heard and felt the sickening thud of my own skull on the floor. I don't know how long I was out. Light began to seep back into the corners of my vision and I felt little hands tugging at my ankles, "Miss Laura, Miss Laura, are you ok." I dropped back into blackness, and after an undiscernable amount of time opened my eyes to find Willie, who has become my New York Mama, kneeling beside me and softly stroking my back. I could see her, but I couldn't move or speak. After a couple of minutes I managed to force out "What just happened?" She continued to stroke my back and told me, "You passed out, sweetie." I lay there a bit longer before I said, "There's blood, isn't there." There was. My fall must have been straight over from a standing position. I felt glued to the floor, arms and legs splayed straight back. I clearly wasn't conscious enough to attempt to catch myself. My chin and forehead broke my fall. I split my chin open and was in fact lying in an expanding pool of my own hot blood. I suppose I'm very lucky that my nose and teeth remained intact. I have an irrational (well, I guess not THAT irrational now) fear of falling on my face and breaking my teeth. I can't describe how relieved I am that it didn't happen.
I sat up to see a room full of stunned and frightened children staring back at me. Some of the little ones were crying, and they all started to ask if I was ok. Willie calmed them down while she sent one of the older ones to get something to put pressure on my bleeding chin. "You're gonna need a stitch." Oh no. Oh shit. That's when the panic really hit me. I started to tear up as my still fuzzy brain attempted to explain "I don't have health insurance, I can't!" But this wasn't really up for arguement. As soon as I was able to move, Willie and the lovely young woman who is the administrative assistant, got me up, got my stuff, and we headed for 119th and 1st, to a walk in clinic. I felt like hammered shit, but once we were outside, the slight breeze was a a relief.
Within two minutes, the entire staff of the Clinic had taken one look at me an insisted I be taken to the ER. Metropolitan hospital was suggested. 96th and 2nd, just one block from my apartment. We got in a cab and headed down, and I finally got the chance to call my parents and tell them what had happened. My mother suggested that I insist on a plastics consult for what would certainly be stitches on my face. I'm an actress, facial scarring is important. I never would have thought of that on my own. I checked into the ER, and they actually got to me in a pretty timely fashion. I waited about 45 minutes. In my one other NYC ER experience, I waited over 5 hours before I was even checked in. I was expecting something similar, but the staff of Metropolitan Hospital was extremely helpful and attentive. The nurses in particular were fantastic. The ER was busy, but I never felt like I had been forgotten or left unattended.
Apparently this fainting spell was cause for much more concern than I had previously suspected. When I described my accident to each nurse or doctor treating me I caught a slight bugging of the eyes and the feeling that this was really not good news. I began to be poked and prodded for all sorts of blood work and tests. Questions upon questions began to roll in. In addition to the FIVE stitches my chin recieved (by the way, that shit hurts like a bastard), I was hooked up to EKG machines, shot with a tetanus vaccine, stuck with not one, but TWO I.V's and the recipeient of two CT scans. They thought I had a blood clot. It was some scary shit. Blood clot? That'll kill you. I know what that is. That's bad.
I had been keeping in phone contact with my mom, my scene partners, Maggie, Max and Helen, but it was at this point that I decided maybe I should tell the boy what was going on. I sent a text to Kim, a fellow playhouse student and the girl who has generously been letting him use her phone to call me while he is in Louisiana. About an hour later, she called me back. I filled her in on what happened, and she promised to get the news to him as soon as she saw him next. He called sometime after the CT scans, around 9pm. He was scared. I was scared. I cried as I explained what had happened and what I was waiting to find out. He told me he loved me and called several more times to check in. Around midnight I recieved another call from him. "I'm going to fly up in the morning." What? He can't be serious. He can't seriously even be considering this, right? I mean, he's busy shooting this big movie. That's a huge undertaking. They're probably going to let me out of here sometime soon. Don't bother. I'm not worth it.
But apparently I am worth it. I could tell that his feeling of disconnection and powerlessness in the situation was genuine. So when the phone rang again, and he said "I'll be at Laguardia at 1:30, where should I go then," all I could do was cry and say "thank you, thank you, I love you." And I do. I am overwhelmed by the fact that he really will be here in a few hours, and he really is doing all of this just for me. My god. Who is this boy and what has he done with the wishy-washy, non-commital, guilt-ridden tool that I spent most of my year wrapped up with? His change in the last few weeks has been astounding, but I didn't fully grasp how complete it was until now. Despite the fact that I'm lying here, still feeling pretty awful and in desperate need of a shower and some pain-killers, I think I am perhaps one of the most loved people on the planet. I would be grinning from ear to ear if it didn't hurt so much to do so. Oh, God. I can't believe this.
I was finally discharged from the ER early this morning, having spent somewhere around 16 hours there. The CT results were negative for a clot. They don't know what caused the "spell" (as we call it in the south), but they insisted that I return in a couple of days for follow up. I am still amazed by the love and support I felt from everyone around me. My roomie showed up to sit with me for awhile, and was clearly disturbed by my sorry state. Friends kept calling throughout the day and night just to check in with me. I even made an ER buddy. My neighbor in the holding area of the ER was a man named Micah, and we hit it off with some nice conversation. He was really sweet, and we exchanged numbers for the purpose of continuing to discuss screenwriting and other artistic ideas. He made it his personal mission for the time that I was there to keep my spirits up and make sure that the doctors and nurses were paying me plenty of attention. I'm grateful for his company, and I hope he's doing well now. He was just being admitted as I was leaving the ER.
I staggered the block back home and fell into bed, checking in once with boy, who was off for the airport in a mere three hours from then. He told me to get some sleep and that he'd see me very soon. He called back again, still in a panic, certain that they shouldn't have released me yet. I must say, if anything like this ever happens and he is in the city, I'm pretty sure I'd get the best possible care ever. I'm sure of this, because it seems like he'd be all over every doctor and nurse in a three block radius to make sure that his girl is taken care of. It feels really good to have someone like that in my corner.
So, how about that shower. Life is good. Oh, and check out my bruised, swollen, sewn-up chin...
No comments:
Post a Comment