Part 1: A Loss Of Balance
Stories like mine are whispered in private, especially among women.
News of Bob Saget’s death sent shockwaves as “America’s Father” passed away unexpectedly. When the cause of death — accidental head trauma — was revealed, I was taken back to March 2019.
I was under immense pressure and I was pushing myself to the edge in every way. We had moved our autistic son into a group home in Maryland, securing his future surrounded by friends and family. I was in the midst of temporarily relocating to corporate housing in Knoxville, Tennessee; we were selling our house in Maryland; and I was throwing every ounce of energy I had into my work. To push the envelope a little further, I was scheduled to participate in several partner events in the coming weeks. It felt like I had everything under control, but my body disagreed.
At 1:00am, I woke up in my hotel room, freezing with my head pounding. I had just had a nightmare, and I rocketed out of bed feeling panicked, trying to get my bearings about me as the room started to spin. Then it all went dark. When I opened my eyes, I was flat on my back on the bathroom floor. I slowly rolled onto my side and saw blood pooling around me. Shock set in. As I closed my eyes and started to drift off, my most prominent thought was that our son was safe and cared for — this was the most important thing in my life. But just as I was on the edge of deep sleep, I realized that, if I allowed myself to go there, I might not wake up.
I grabbed a towel, pressed it to my head, and spent the next 20 minutes crawling to my phone. On that journey, I developed a plan: Once I reached the nightstand, I yanked the charger cable to pull my phone to the floor. I pushed buttons and pressed send; my husband immediately picked up. When I pressed the video button, it was obvious to both of us that I was in trouble. But he was cool as a cucumber, asking me to recount what happened while he called the hotel on another phone. I didn’t know my room number — I didn’t know several things. Staying true to our relationship, though, we began joking, bringing levity to a serious situation and connecting us to the task at hand: Keep me awake.
A short time later, my hotel room was filled with rescue personnel. They quizzed me as they lifted me onto the stretcher and wheeled me to the ambulance. I told them I was just testing out emergency services before relocating; they laughed, but there was no question they were focused on their job. In the ambulance, I could hear them talking, but I couldn’t understand their words. I clearly remember one gentleman insisting on using wet towels to try and wipe away the blood covering my hands, arms, and face.
The emergency room doctor said my head looked like a rock hitting a windshield: There was a spider effect of shattered skin as a result of my head’s direct hit to the tile floor. When they brought out the trimmers to shave part of my head for staples and sutures, I asked if they could throw in a few highlights and give me a pedicure while they were at it. I needed to stay above the seriousness of the situation.
Once alone in the room, lying there with dried blood soaked into my nail beds, looking down at my red stained pajamas, I realized I had no coat or shoes. This was a fine mess I’d gotten myself into. But fate is amazing. An old friend happened to be on my flight to Knoxville and she was staying at the same hotel. She came to rescue me from the ER — coat and shoes in hand — and my work family rallied around me, staying by my side until my husband could make the eight hour drive to be with me.
I kept up the humor until the moment I saw my husband. He walked into the room, scooped me into his arms, and assured me all was going to be okay. That’s when I fell apart. The seriousness of the situation was upon me.
I slept for days. It was sleep I needed to recover from my injury and sleep I’d missed pushing myself the months before. It took me months to regain my strength, and much longer to regain my confidence.
The spider web scar and bump on my head, alongside lifelong vertigo, are reminders of my refusal to acknowledge my body telling me to take a break. When you’re high performing and you keep pushing yourself, you step over warning signs.
Stories like mine are whispered in private, especially among women. Being out loud about this subject is important, and I’ve found several women willing to open up about similar experiences.
As I write more about this topic here on my blog, I hope other women will come forward. If you think this can’t happen to you, you are mistaken. I’m proof it can happen to us all, but if we talk about it, maybe we can prevent it from happening to others.
Edits by Elyse Goldberg
My husband, who helped me regain balance.
