Help Me

Two words I have a hard time saying, even in an emergency

In January 2006 I made the fateful decision to wear platform boots and get really drunk.

I should’ve known better. I’ve worn heels only a handful of times and it’s never ended well. In fact, at age nine I tumbled down an entire flight of steps trying to sashay in a pair of white patent leather Mary-Janes with a one-inch heel. After hitting the bottom step I stood up, burning red hot with embarrassment and brushed myself off before loudly informing everyone that in fact, I was fine.

Even as a kid I wasn’t all that interested in accepting help. At birth, I probably insisted on cutting my own umbilical cord. Yes, it’s that deep.

So 2006: I’m standing outside The Magician Bar on Rivington, wasted— my coat half off, my scarf dragging on the ground, digging through my purse in search of my cigarettes — when this man pushes me out of the way, hard. I go flying forward, tripping over my scarf, ice on the ground, my hands otherwise preoccupied so I’ve got nothing to brace my fall but my face.

I don’t actually remember hitting the sidewalk. I must’ve blacked out for a few minutes (thank you, booze and shock). When I did finally peel myself off of the concrete, I was very, very sober.

And missing my two front teeth.

I flicked my tongue through the gaping hole in my gums and tasted blood. My bottom lip was split open and when I ran my hand over my mouth, I realized all of the skin was missing between my top lip and my nose. I quickly covered the damage with my winter hat and glanced around to see if there were any witnesses to my fall. There weren’t. Whomever had pushed me was gone. I was alone.

A few minutes later, my friends came tumbling out of the bar, just as drunk as I had been moments before. They were hopping into a cab to go in search of tacos. Did I want to come? I shook my head no, hat still clutched over my mouth. They had no idea what had just happened.

I didn’t tell them. I was too embarrassed. Besides, I thought I could fix it myself.

In a blur, they piled into the taxi and headed further downtown. I just stood there looking from left to right, running my tongue along the empty space in my mouth,trying to come up with a solid plan. I took stock of the rest of my injuries: my mouth was bleeding profusely, the palms of my hands and my knees were skinned badly, I think I twisted my ankle and my pride was somewhere lost in the snow. The thought actually crossed my mind to look for my teeth and attempt to glue them back in myself.

I must’ve been standing there for awhile because a few strangers stopped to inquire if I was okay. After I nodded “yes” to the third or fourth person, it dawned on me that the situation might be serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital.

So I took myself to St. Vincent’s. Not by cab. Instead, with my hat still clutched over my mouth, I walked the 30 blocks from the Lower East Side to the West Village. It was a crazy move on my part, but I think I just needed to exert a little bit of control to quell the terror that was starting to brew in the pit of my stomach.

The emergency room was pretty quiet. Just me and the guard and the hum of the fluorescents. Waiting. For like, forever.

When I finally did see a doctor she said she couldn’t do anything about my teeth. I’d have to see a dentist on Monday. And though I was lucky that nothing else in my face was broken, I did need stitches in my mouth.

Fun fact: They can’t numb the skin if you’ve been drinking alcohol, so I had to get sewn up without any Lidocaine.

I didn’t flinch once. The doctor said she’d never seen someone so tough. In fact, she told the man with the busted chin in the gurney next to me to stop screaming like a baby, that I’d taken six stitches without a whimper and I was half his size. At the time, I took her comment as a badge of honor. In retrospect, it just seems sad and weird that broken, drunk me was all alone at the emergency room.

The doctor asked me if I was I okay to get home on my own. I smiled the best I could, put my coat back on and said, “I’m fine.”

When I got into the lobby, I realized I wasn’t. The thought of going home to my apartment by myself was terrifying.

So I did something I never do. I pulled out my phone and called my friend Stephen. I apologized for waking him up and through tears asked, “Can you help me? I need somewhere to stay. Something really bad happened.”

Stephen told me to take a cab. He’d meet me on the corner. “Don’t worry, It’s okay,” he said.

When I got to his apartment, he gave me a glass of water and some ice for my face. We stayed up for awhile, smoking cigarettes and talking. I told him what had happened. And when I broke down in tears after finally getting a good look at myself in the mirror — my swollen mouth, the scab forming on my upper lip, the shards of what remained of my two front teeth —he said that I still looked pretty, regardless.

That night he slept on the floor so I could have the bed. My mouth bled all over the sheets and when I offered to clean them, he told me I was being ridiculous. Shit happens. It’s cool. They’re just sheets.

Before I left, I apologized once again. He didn’t understand why.“You were in trouble. You’re my friend. You needed my help. You would’ve done the same for me.”

He was right.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said, as I headed out on my way home, alone.

I’d love to say that I took him up on his offer. That this incident turned my whole world around. That I realized it’s insane to think that you can do everything on your own. That I suddenly became someone who feels really okay about leaning on others. Truth is, I’m still not. Change just isn’t that simple. At least not for me. Even seven years later.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my parents on the phone. They were encouraging me to take a friend up on his offer to help me out career-wise. I was humming and hawing at the suggestion, insisting that I’d figure it out on my own. Somehow in the midst of our conversation the story of my teeth came up.

“You asked for help then,” my dad said, “So it is possible.”

“Ha. Ha. That was an emergency, this is totally different,” I replied.

“What are you so afraid of?” my mom asked.

I could’ve said:

I hate feeling vulnerable. Or weak. Or exposed. That I don’t want to seem like I need anybody. Or I’m in the way. Or I’m a bother. That I can’t do things for myself. That I’m not perfect. I never will be perfect. Ever. And that scares me.

But instead, I just changed the subject.