I was sick on July 4th, 2004, so I got some lunch and went up to my room. My mom brought me some ice cream later and I fell asleep. Later my uncle woke me up and told me to bring the dishes downstairs. I pick them up, I turn the corner, then my foot flies off the top step, the dishes fall in front of me. I hear the shatter. I can't stop myself so I turn my face away from them. I roll into them and the get caught in my stomach and legs. I land at the bottom of the stairs. It felt like it took minutes to happen. I look down and the plate is still in my thigh. I pull it out, and then I collapse, screaming "help".
my family rushed me to the hospital, yadda yadda yadda. I was taking off my shirt to put on one of those gowns and I looked down. During all the movement I saw that the cuts had ripped open. I was standing in a pool of my own blood. I was covered in my own blood. I pulled the shirt off and every movement felt like my body was led. It was so hard to move.
I was holding the shirt and I looked down. There was a cut in the shirt right over my breastbone. I looked down at my chest, and there was a tiny tiny cut right there. If I'd moved the other way, If I'd fallen harder, If anything else had happened that didn't, I wouldn't be talking to you now. Glass would've went through my breastbone, into my heart, and I would have died.
I had 87 stitches put in, and I was sent home. 87 is my favorite number, because 88 would've killed me. I had four major lacerations, and 8 punctures. It didn't hurt until the next morning. I don't remember feeling any pain at all.
The worst pain I've ever been through is having those stitches taken out. it felt like I was being stabbed and cut all over again.