My Head Trauma Anecdote

Newer accounts of Natasha Richardson's awful, apparently fatal accident have triggered memories of an accident I sustained around 20 years ago which I now realize was more dangerous than had seemed to me then. It now appears that Ms. Richardson, who tumbled down a hill during a skiing lesson, was able to walk away from the scene with no visible injuries, laughing and joking, refusing to see a doctor. She started to suffer a headache about an hour after, and quickly decline thereafter.

I was in sixth grade during my own accident. One Friday, a few of us were sent out to lunch earlier than the other kids. As the covered courts were then empty, I exploited the opportunity and started running around. I had recently seen a Ripley's Believe it or Not strip about the man with the world record for running backwards, and I decided to try beat that record. I did not realize then the physics involved in such a venture, and merely assumed it involved running as fast as you could, but backwards. So off I went into a blazing start, and off I fell head first. 

I remember hearing the sickening thud, laying still eyes closed for a while, and a voice from a distance saying "buti nga!" (I remember who said it, and will remember that for the rest of my life.) I was helped up, but was able to walk unassisted to the clinic. Save for a gash on my arm, no external injuries, and I thought the clinic would bandage my wound and that was that. I felt fine, even giddy at having survived such a stupid ordeal with no apparent consequence. 

When the doctor learned though that I had smashed my noggin onto the sun-baked concrete pavement, she told me I had to stay put, and under no circumstances was I to fall asleep. She also called my home, and when neither parent was present, left word that they were to rush to the clinic pronto. I spent the next three hours lollipop in hand or mouth, lollygagging around the clinic under the care and comfort of the elderly head nurse, a very warm and very fat lady who was the mother of a retired PBA player (both mother and son are since deceased). My exuberance over missing afternoon classes was soon replaced by the same boredom had I attended classes, save the stench of isopropyl alcohol. 

When my mom finally arrived, around three hours had passed since the fall. The doctor was insisting that it remained advisable I be rushed to the ER and perhaps kept overnight for observation. I said I was fine, didn't want to go to no steenking hospital, and that was on one level a smart decision since these were the good old days when there was yet no state medical insurance. They finally reckoned that if I was fated to die, I would have done so lollipop in mouth an hour or two earlier. I went home, added the fall to my list of stories, and avoided any near-fatal accidents for the next 18 years, until the day my leg fell through the platform gap just as the doors of the EDSA MRT were closing. (spoiler alert: I survived)

I now realize that the clinic then was worried what is called "talk and die syndrome", which Ms. Richardson is believed to have suffered. Reading about it is quite shattering to self-confidence, and probably sets a rule that as long as you bump your head, you seek medical attention immediately, regardless how much you insist otherwise.