Indoor icicles, a toilet skating rink, and a busted lip

It is not a coincidence that the memories associated with living in a tear-down have only now made it onto a blog. Sometimes it takes distance from an experience to see the humor in it.  I certainly wasn't giggling while I listened to Rob drill a hole in his nail or when I found cockroaches in my lunch box.  However, it is surprisingly funny to look back now with new clarity on times when I have wept with exhaustion or screamed in frustration.  Somehow, writing this blog is like a healing experience. 

For the last two months our construction project has been on hold due to the sorts of obstacles that tend to hinder these types of projects.  However, today, when I walked by our property, there was a new update. The shed is gone. 

The construction work continues and so must my healing process.

And so, today I'm ready to continue on the road to recovery.  I'm ready to tell the story of "the fall".
 ...

I will never forget the site of the officer's flashlight in my eyes, the taste of the blood dripping from my punctured lip, or the feeling of my face skidding across the concrete. 

Texas is known for its extreme weather.  Last summer we experienced 90 consecutive days of triple-digit temperatures.  The winter before, we hit all-time lows.  When you live in a house with holes in the floors, cracks in the windows, and no insulation, the extreme weather is not for the faint of heart.

Rob was out of town for work when the temperatures dropped below 20 degrees.  We had just gotten our new puppy, Risa.  With Rob out of town, it was my responsibility to take her for a walk.  Before we left, I made sure the faucets were dripping.  With no insulation (not even any skirting around the base of the house due to foundation work), the pipes were completely exposed to the elements and I worried they would freeze solid.

I wrapped a wool scarf around my neck, pulled on my calf-length vintage leather coat and tightened the belt around my waist.  I changed into comfortable tennies, grabbed the leash, and off we went.  As we were passing the school where I taught, I noticed a light on in the art room. My friend, Sarah, was still at work.  We stopped by to say hello.

When I noticed it was getting dark, I knew I'd better get back.  We were only half a mile from home, but I was in a hurry.  I had a tour to give of the new Dual Language Program at the school in the morning and knew that it would be a cold night's sleep, even wrapped up in sweatshirts, scarves, and zipped up in a down sleeping bag built for temps of 20 below.

Risa and I chose to head back down S 5th Street, the route with the most street lights.  "Let's run home, Risa!" I whispered and we took off.  I guess the street lights weren't quite bright enough.  Or maybe the trees cast a shadow over the spot in the sidewalk where their roots had pushed the cement uneven at its seam. 

Before we'd run even a block, my toe hit the crack.  I shot forward.  It was one of those moments when you're thinking, Thank goodness I caught myself and didn't fall on my face.  I stumbled for a moment, taking two more choppy steps but failing to regain balance. Risa jerked forward and with my hands still warm in my pockets, there was nothing but my face to break (or brake) my fall.  I think my cheek bone hit first. Or maybe it was my tooth. Or my chin? I skid on my skin a bit before I stopped, sprawled out and quite a sight.  Risa took off.  Just as I began to pull myself up onto my knees, a police cruiser approached, its lights shining on me, spotlighting my humiliation.  The young officer got out of the car, asking me if I was alright. To be honest, I wasn't yet quite sure.

"I'll get the dog," he suggested.  I remember looking down and seeing the blood on my white scarf.  I could feel the gritty gravel in my lip and my front tooth was loose. I could only imagine how I looked and only the presence of this stranger kept me from weeping right then and there.

When he returned with Risa, he saw my scuffed face and winced.  He shone his flashlight real close when I asked if he thought I'd need stitches.  He was sure I'd be fine, once I cleaned up a bit.  When he offered to drive me and Risa home, I couldn't refuse.

We arrived to West Johanna Street.
"Anyone home to help you get cleaned up?"
"No. My husband's out of town."
"Would you like me to wait until you get inside?"
"No, no. I'm fine. Thank you so much for the ride home."

Risa and I hurried through the gate and up the back stairs (our front door hasn't opened since we leveled the house).  I slipped my hand in my jacket pocket and felt... nothing.  My keys!!

It was then that I began to cry.  I called Rob.  Who knows what I said in that moment through my sobs.  Probably something like, "20 degrees.  No keys. Locked out. Loose tooth. Bleeding.  Freezing. What do I do?"

"Calm down, baby.  You can reach your hand in the doggie door and unlock the door.  Put the phone down and try."

Even when I pushed my scraped and bruised face up against the wood, I couldn't quite reach.  I'd have to go back to the scene of the accident in search of my keys.  I kept Rob on the phone with me.  He spoke calmly, doing his best to keep my mind off of the bitter cold that seemed to be freezing my tears.  I was almost back to that dreaded crack in the sidewalk when I heard my keys jing-jingling.

????

"I can hear my keys! I think they're in my pocket! I'll call you back!" I mumbled through my now swollen lip.

I searched my pocket again and felt a tiny hole.  The keys had slipped into the lining of my jacket and were now hanging down near the backs of my knees. I stood there on S 5th Street for a few moments, fishing the keys back up through the teeny hole. I sighed and rushed back toward home, a little concerned that I might run into someone I knew but, this time, careful to watch my step.

Once inside, I prioritized my next moves. First, I called my mother for pity.  Then, I left a weepy message for my principal to let her know that she'd have to find a replacement for the bilingual tour I had scheduled for 8am the next morning.  The sight of me would surely scare away any potential parents.  Next, I took several pictures of my concrete-beaten face.  I cleaned my cuts with alcohol and carefully washed my face.  My lip and cheek continued to swell and color, but at least my gums began to tighten around my tooth which did not appear to be damaged after all.


I slept with a scarf swaddled around my neck and a sleeping bag cinched around my mangled mug.  Rob, rerouted back to Austin for the night due to snow in Dallas, kissed my forehead and slept by my side, cocooned in his own sleeping bag.

In the morning, I said farewell to Rob as he headed back to the airport and hello to the icicles that had frozen inside our home on our bathroom and kitchen faucets. The pipes were frozen and the water in our low-flow toilet was as solid as an ice skating rink.  The last thing I wanted to do was be seen in public, but I was freezing and in need of a shower.  I packed a towel and a change of clothes and put on the largest pair of sunglasses I could find.  I left for the Y.  I kept my head down and hoped people in the locker room would think I had just worked out.  I did my best to ignore the curious and concerned stares and to pull my sweater over my head without getting it stuck to my soft scabs.

The healing process took a few weeks.  Our close friends, the Vohls, took me in for a few nights until the freeze broke, our pipes thawed, and Rob had mended the cracked plumbing (a story for another time).  We enjoyed a snow day and I enjoyed the central heat and the company.  For awhile, wherever Rob and I went we were aware of the concerned glances.  My principal even sent me home from work my first day back explaining that she was afraid I would frighten the children.

Today, the scars, like the shed in our back yard, have disappeared.  I keep the photo to remind myself that, 1. things could be worse and 2. to always watch my step!