Attack of the Trashcan

It took a trip to the emergency room to initiate me to lighten my bookbag

Art by Ainsley Jarriel | Special to VOXf

By Kristen Lewis | VOX Staff

The first thing people usually notice about me is that I’m an overachiever. Because I like to go above and beyond, the transition from the middle school to high school’s workload was especially hard for my stress level. I was burdened emotionally with anxiety and physically with an overstuffed bookbag. I was one of those ninth graders who hurried through the halls, hunched under a heavy backpack. My mother joked that one day I’d tip over. I thought that was just a saying—until the day I landed in the emergency room.

The Reason
I was incredibly excited as I stepped off the bus after the first Friday of freshman year. I’d made it a whole week without being stuffed into a locker, and I knew now that ninth grade wouldn’t be my demise. When I approached my driveway, I noticed my family’s trash can, sitting suspiciously on the sidewalk.

Trash cans have never liked me. At the age of 12, I fell into a trash can when my neighbor sprayed me in the neck with his water gun and I crashed my bike. When I was 14, a lunch lady slammed a trash can into me in the cafeteria.

Now, at 15, I was about to be trash can-attacked for a third time. This encounter would prove to be the most serious and malicious of all. Despite my skepticism, I decided to push the trash can up the driveway to its resting spot by the garage. Perhaps I wanted to suck up to my mom, or perhaps I wanted to make a peace offering to the plastic bin. Maybe even a little bit of both.

Trash can Attack
As I grasped its handles, a red sports car shot down the street and came to a halt near my mailbox. Much to my excitement, football players poured out. I shot them my best attempt at a sexy smile, which was tricky with my mouth full of braces. Distracted by the good-looking boys, I didn’t pay much attention to the trash can. The bin became irritated with me and it decided to get revenge. The trash can lunged and with the added weight of my bookbag, I stood no chance at stabilizing myself. I fell backwards.

The malicious bin hit me, and I scrambled to my feet and ran into the house, leaving the cruel trash can at the foot of the driveway. All I could think of was the boys who had seen me fall. But inside, I realized my head was hurting and I decided to lie down. Relaxing on the couch, I began to taste something metallic. Worried, I moved into the bathroom, looked into my mirror and screamed. My lip was bleeding, my teeth stained red.

Terrified, I barreled down the stairs to my dad’s office. “So, I’m in the process of switching insurance,” he was saying into the speaker phone, “and I was just wondering how soon we could be put on your plan.”

I stood there like a zombie until he looked up. “Dad, I’m bleeding,” I said, expecting sympathy.

“Go… Uh… Go wash your hands,” he said.

“What’s going on? Is someone hurt?” the insurance lady asked suspiciously.

“Hold on,” he said, muting the phone. “Kristen, just go rinse your lip and wipe away the blood. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t call your mother,” he said in a hushed tone, as if my mother would blame him.

I rushed up the stairs, grabbed a paper towel and began to wipe at the blood that was dripping down my lip. To my horror, when I wiped my lip, it opened, and I saw directly through it. The trash can must have sliced through it. Looking in the mirror, I moved my upper lip. Part of my gum was scraped away to reveal a tooth that had not come down.

Ignoring my dad’s directions, I called my mom. When she answered, I spoke choppily, but she did manage to hear “lip… cut… open.”

Rude Doctoring
She rushed home and took me to the doctor’s office. As I sat in the examination room, an unfamiliar doctor entered. If there is a guidebook on how doctors should act, he broke every guideline. “Ew!” he said when he saw me, face distorted with disgust.

I eyed him skeptically as he picked up a long Q-tip. Without warning, or painkillers, he jabbed it through my lip. “You’re going to need extensive face surgery,” he said. “Your face will probably be screwed up for the rest of your life,” he said insensitively. My jaw dropped. “Oh, and your front teeth might fall out once your braces come off,” he added.

He proceeded to tell us to go to the hospital. As if we hadn’t already guessed! I was furious: Where else would I have face surgery; in a cardboard box along the highway?!

Numbing the Pain
In the ER, I was ushered into an exam room, followed by a male nurse wielding pain killers. I was grateful until he mentioned that the pain killer had to be put in the hole in my lip. Still, I was eager for the pain to stop, so I agreed with a nod.

The pain was not as bad as I expected—certainly not as bad as the Q-tip. At first it burned, but within five seconds the pain was gone and I was in a haze. All I remember is the doctor moving me into a different room and sewing up my lip. As he worked, I chattered on about the half-dead creature my cat had brought in the day before.

For the rest of the evening, I was strung out on painkillers. My lip had swollen to three times its normal size, but—still drugged—I barely noticed. Apparently, while I was loopy from the meds, I complimented every boy in Publix and convinced my mom to take me to a teen event for my church. We met the teens at a local café, and I remember blathering idiotically about the perfect banana pudding. I’m afraid to know what exactly I said during that time.

The Lesson
Ever since that day, I have been cautious in the presence of my plastic foes. While the trash can was the perpetrator in my tragic lip accident, my bookbag did play a role. Now, I make sure to get my assignments done on or ahead of time, so I don’t have to stuff my bookbag with books. If I do need to bring home a lot of books, I make sure my weight is evenly distributed by holding some books and binders in my arms.

While I’m still an overachiever, I am now well aware of my limits and weaknesses. I know that boys are my weakness, so I shouldn’t try to do anything potentially dangerous around them. Better yet, when my mom asks me to take the trash can up, all I have to do is point at my lip, and she sends my father off to do it.

Kristen is a junior at Collins Hill High.