By Shelli Fedullo
I can become so immersed and caught in thought that the world around me fades away. Many or most of you know what I mean because sometimes you do it too. It is the opposite of being distracted. It’s when all your wits light up like lasers, fly into action, and illuminate every contour and crevice of your mind. It’s where you go looking for ideas, answers, insights, and hoping for epiphanies. In the physical world, this can translate to coffee getting spilled on your keyboard, not hearing the phone ring, etc. Until now, actually really just now, I never thought of giving it a name. Maybe thoughtscape. Of course, if I had come up with that during my defense lawyer years, the entry “Deep in a thoughtscape related to issues of...” on a client’s invoice would not have been well received, although it could have replaced several detailed sentences describing the same thing.
About two weeks ago as I was walking outside, but had wandered into a thoughtscape, the physical world intruded in a not good way. I went straight down, like a felled tree sawed at its base, face first, hard, onto concrete. I live within about a block of two hospitals and had fallen in front of one of the buildings. A woman saw it happen and rushed over to help. The look on her face when she saw mine was not encouraging. She helped get me on my feet and walked me inside so I could clean up in the ladies’ room. As we were entering, a young guy in scrubs was leaving the building. The woman asked if he was a doctor. My guess is he was a medical student. He didn’t reply and looked at me quickly. When he saw I was able to walk, that must have been his cue it was okay to walk away very, very quickly. Just saying.
My nose was killing me and swelling up in indignation. I thought there was a fair chance it was broken. When I saw myself in the mirror, I understood the woman’s expression. Let’s just say I looked as if someone had thrown a lot of red paint on my face, a lot, a whole
lot. If, in addition to the punishing way it was already strongly expressing itself, my nose could verbalize, it would have been screaming, “What’s wrong with you!!! Pay attention!!! Look at what you did to me!!!!” The area right above my nose, between my eyes, was not delighted with me either. Neither was my right hand, although it was less crabby.
When I walked into a packed ER, it struck me maybe I should not have washed off my face so I could have made a more dramatic entrance, but it probably would not have made any difference. The wait to be triaged was not as long as I had expected. My son was on his way, which made me feel better about things. Although the red paint situation was not entirely resolved, my interpretation of comments and reactions during the triage examination (along with comprehensive medical research while googling in the waiting room) was that, despite my nose’s increasing cruelty, it was not broken. I was told I should have a head CT scan, a precaution for older (emphasis added...) patients like me. Talk about adding insult to injury.
I tried to negotiate my way out of what would obviously be an hours long wait. I asked whether, if my nose was not broken, my doctor could order the CT so I could leave and come back to the radiology department the next day. I was told yes, my doctor could, but the CT was already ordered. I was given gauze for my face and asked to tell the receptionist if I decided to leave. Not having heard anything like your nose probably is, or could be broken, I intended to be out of the door as soon as I reached my doctor. I called and left a message. Within about 15 minutes after being triaged, I was taken for the CT then brought back to the waiting room. Things were really moving along. Quite promising. My very comforting and equally worried son had arrived, and my doctor returned the call. She had looked at my chart, but it was too soon for the CT results. For about the next five hours, I checked my online chart every 15 minutes, and eventually every five minutes for the results. When I was called back to the triage room, instead of being directed to the door leading into the examination rooms, I knew (as I expected) the CT was negative. I got bandaged, was given instructions, and walked the block to my house with my son who held onto me very firmly. He was at my house after work for a number of days, bringing me stuff I needed, and doing stuff I am used to doing on my own.
Over the next few days, my very angry nose continued to strongly express its displeasure with me, and in new ways. ” I hope you enjoy looking like you dipped my tip into soot,” it would have said if it could. Displeasure was also strongly expressed by other parts of my face, my head and pretty much every part of my body. As a few more days passed, other areas of my body, which I think had no business getting involved, joined in. I was also a little foggy. Now that I am not foggy, I realize it was maybe more than a little. Although I have mainly been forgiven, some parts of my body still hold a grudge. As to my face, concealer is a wonderful thing.
I am very, very lucky. So lucky. This could have been worse, much, much worse, even life- altering worse. A broken nose, which I dodged, pales in comparison to what can sometimes happen to, as the triage people described, older patients.
Now that my head is clear, or at least close to clear, I visited a small thoughtscape (they vary in size depending on what is involved) looking for insights beyond the obvious reminder to pay attention to the actual physical landscape when I am outside walking around in it. What else? I already knew from experience that life can change in an instant, but this was a reminder.
I keep a tiny Wonder Woman doll - a tree ornament actually – near my computer. I bought it for myself this past holiday season at a vendor at the City Hall courtyard market. I have always identified with the notion of being an Amazon, tough, strong and independent (plus they wear nice bracelets). I would rather do most things myself than ask for or accept help. I am supposed to be the one who helps other people. This sometimes/often frustrates my son who in turn calls me stubborn.
Although these are less than epiphanies, I found some insights. Being strong and tough, while accepting help when needed, are not mutually exclusive. The real tricks are recognizing and acknowledging that we all have limits, and that neither this recognition nor asking for help are weaknesses. These are not necessarily well-developed skills for a lot of us. Certainly not for me, but I am working on them. I am guessing maybe some of you may want to work on them too.
Rochelle M. Fedullo is a former chancellor of the Philadelphia Bar Association, co-editor in chief of The Philadelphia Lawyer magazine and of counsel to The Weitz Firm, LLC.
