As I lay sprawled on the hard floor in my best imitation of a crime scene chalk outline, I did a quick assessment of all body parts for major breaks as increasingly searing pain shot across my skull and down my left shoulder in a repetitive cadence. I felt the pain but did not react immediately as I heard the words of the DeMatteo family mantra “Toughen up, you’re fine, push through the pain”. I held my emotions inside, and a stone mask was in full place on this Italian face, however banged it was at the moment. I went to lift my head ever so slightly in a vain attempt to alleviate some of the nearly unbearable strikes of pain and that was when I saw the pool of blood weeping across the floor and the source of the dripping was my head. I screamed a familiar expletive at the top of my lungs and then dissolved into near hysterical crying because the shock had worn off, panic had set in, and I was far from home.
My first thought was that I was possibly bleeding out, the second thought was “this is like a scene from Murder, She Wrote” and the third thought was “SH*T! Did I break my hearing aid!?!” My traveling companions had surrounded me in record time, and I swear they were by my side before I completely hit the floor, though by their reporting none of them saw me fall, but heard the impact and turned around to find me in a very unexpected scenario.
I collected myself enough between sobs to do a full body check for complete range of motion while Linda, the caretaker of the home where we were staying, was called for advice on where and how to seek medical attention in this beautiful but unfamiliar coastal town. She was on her way by the time I felt steady enough to sit up slowly and continue my assessment of any potential injury to my body and hearing aids which, mercifully, were absolutely fine.
Did I mention I hit a cement wall with my head?
It was nothing short of miraculous that I only sustained a blunt force cut on the top of my skull. I also learned that head injuries bleed – ALOT – so that was a fun fact that was not on my 2026 Bingo Card. I could have done without witnessing the puddle of my DNA, though grateful that once I sat up and applied pressure the bleeding stopped fairly quickly. What came next was worse than the bang itself – the nausea and headache pain which was nearly unbearable for a few hours, though I did not let on exactly how awful it was. I declined Advil because I did not want to “mask” any symptoms of what was likely already a concussion. Having suffered two of them before, I was familiar with both the presentation and protocol so for that I have to thank my wild life adventures as for once they came in handy beyond being a great story to tell over a pint or two.
Before I knew it, I was being asked to stand and move to a car where I was to be taken to the local pharmacist because – and I quote – “The doctor is not working today”. I felt transported to Downton Abbey or some equally quaint show of times past – where the country doctor may be “away on holiday”. I knew I wasn’t in Boston anymore.
I went to the pharmacy and was met by Sean – not David, for that was his brother who was not working today. I had to put full trust in this man that he knew what he was doing because he was the deciding vote of whether I needed stitches and a scan which, per Linda, “was not a good idea to go to the public hospital ‘cause you’ll catch somethin’ worse!”
Upon meeting Sean’s acquaintance, I knew I had to self-disclose immediately because I was already in shock and having to strain to understand an Irish accent was a complication I could do without. I said, “Just so you are aware, I wear two hearing aids and have a significant hearing impairment. I will let you know if I need anything repeated and my accompanying partner over here will translate for me as needed.”
Never have I seen anyone so wide-eyed and caught off guard as poor Sean the Pharmacist. I imagine he was hoping against hope that his brother, the “not-working- today-David” would appear out of the ether and rescue him from this fast talking Bostonian currently bleeding from the skull.
Sean washed up, poked around my head sans gloves (!), washed his hands again, and determined that it was long but not deep enough to stitch. We received intense directions and wound care supplies. As Sean moved to clean my wound with drippy, cold wound spray I asked him to pause so I could remove my hearing aids as they could not get wet. Bless him, his wide-eyed stare was back but he kept talking. Not to be deterred, I looked at him and said, “Do what you need to do to my head, but please know that I can’t hear sh*t right now -” Just when I thought his eyes couldn’t get any wider, indeed they did.
The wound was cleaned, supplies procured, and I started to put my hearing aids back in. No sooner was one in my ear that I saw his lips moving again. I said “I need you to hold on that thought one more second as the hearing aids need to cycle through and start up, and that can take up to a minute but probably less. I will let you know when I am back on”. The poor man looked close to passing out at this point. In an attempt to not torture him any further, I refrained from asking about his experience with the deaf/hard of hearing community and let it rest as much as it was tormenting me to not know the answer.
We checked out at the desk and with wound supplies in hand and myself unsteady, nauseous, woozy, and beyond aggravated at the entire situation walking out to the car, I did a furtive glance around the tiny pharmacy. Not a hearing aid battery in sight.
Did Saint Patrick drive the deaf people out with the snakes?
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