Final Destination

The funny yet weird part was, when I woke up that morning, the last line of Bryan Singer’s breakout movie The Usual Suspects was looped in my mind: “And just like that, he was gone.”

I went to the bathroom for my usual morning routine. In the shower, I poured cold water all over my body to wake me up. When I reached up for the soap dish placed on top of the wall divider, I realized there was no soap at all. Dripping wet, I parted the shower curtain, stepped over the tiled divider (which kept water from the shower from splashing all over the rest of the bathroom floor), and got the soap on the sink. As I stepped back into the shower, I was still repeating the line in my head: “And just like that, he was gone.”

My right foot slipped on the wet tiled floor.

My mind registered my falling down in slow motion. As my right foot slid forward and up, my left foot started to slide forward also. I could feel my body falling backward quickly. And then suddenly Time jumped forward. I felt the bicep of my right arm slammed against the tile,  and the right side of the back of my head, just above the neck, smashed against the tiled divider.

And just like that, I found myself on the wet shower floor, naked. My butt was cold because of the wet floor. There was pain on my right arm, and the back of my head throbbed with pain. Shocked. Stunned. But still awake.

And just like that, I remembered the line: “And just like that, he was gone.”

Wrong movie, I thought. Thoughts of Final Destination came to mind.

Without moving, I took stock of my surroundings. I can hear the water from the open faucet filling up the pail. The neighbors were cooking breakfast; I could hear something frying. I could feel my butt and lower back getting wetter and colder.

I carefully stood up, rubbed the back of my head. I could feel a small bump. Hairline fracture. Concussion. These lines immediately came to mind; I’ve been watching too much TV. Still, I knew I had to have myself checked.

I drove myself to St. Luke’s emergency room. The doctor asked me if I blacked out or felt sleepy or threw up. No, no, no. He felt the bump behind my head. I told him I wanted to make sure I didn’t have any concussion. “Hindi naman malaki yung bukol,” he said. “Pantay pa naman yung likod mo.” But still he ordered a series of x-ray tests.

In the x-ray room, I felt like a model in a photo shoot because the technician kept giving me instructions like, “Turn your head to the left,” “Place your arms at the back, and lower your shoulders,” “Chin down, chin down!” and “Hold that pose.” Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.

After waiting for the results, the doctor told me the good news. They didn’t find any fractures or breaks. He prescribed some painkillers just in case; on the way home, I decided not to buy any of them. Yeah, I am that hardheaded. I was also told to observe myself for the next 24 hours. But I never felt any dizziness or nausea.

And just like that, I guess Death still has no need of me. Yet. (And no, it wasn’t karma, I’m sure. If only the good die young, then I’ll live to be a hundred years old.)