Today I got myself trapped in my bedroom.
Yep, that’s right, trapped. As in couldn’t get out. As in door won’t open and there’s no way to go out the windows because my bedroom is on the second floor.
Here’s the lead up…
I was on call this morning for an admission to the psych hospital. I was asked to come to a meeting an hour’s drive from home to get some information on the patient from the case manager. So off I go, dressed to the nines (having originally been in a T-shirt and jeans since I knew I’d be going on the men’s ward) to drive an hour away to a meeting…a meeting that I knew I’d be attending for about 10 minutes before I had to dash south to the hospital.
Sure enough, I was no sooner in the meeting room but I was again hurtling down the highway, planning to stop at home and put on my more androgynous outfit from earlier in the morning and then go straight to the hospital. The patient was coming from a good ways away so I felt sure that I would have time to change and even grab some lunch.
Speaking of lunch, I’d have to give the chicken sandwich at McDonald’s a Nice Try. It’s clear that it was supposed to resemble the Chik-Fil-A sandwich, down to the boiled/bagely texture of the bun and the pickle. Supposed to, but didn’t. Reminded me more of the chicken we used to get in the lunchroom when I was in school. But back to the story, lunch comes long after the issue with the bedroom door.
I stopped by the house and dashed in the door, barely shutting the front door behind me. Up the stairs and to the left (that was for you, Liz), please, and into the bedroom with Jeany to change back into my “Looks Like A Boy” outfit. Of course, I didn’t want Jeany running into the dog room and getting the other two all wound up so I shut the bedroom door.
Problem. When the bedroom door shuts, it sticks along the top. This isn’t usually a problem because the door opens inward and I can hit it near the top as I turn the knob and it opens without a problem…from the outside. From the inside it doesn’t budge.
Guess who’s claustrophobic? I paced, I cried, I’m sure I scared Jeany to death. I hit the door, I kicked the door, I tried to get it to open by shoving an underwire (don’t ask) and a metal bookmark between the door and the top of the door jam. Both those objects are now bent.
I called my parents for ideas. Mom asked if I had a knife in the room with me.
Pause. A knife? In my bedroom?
Anyway, then Simon called and tried to talk me down. It wasn’t working. He did come up with the suggestion that saved the day, however. “Have you called Katy?” he asked. I love the text I got back from her… “Here I come 2 save the day!” Bless. I’m so glad she and her husband were close by and had time to come help me or I might just still be there.
So yeah, save your envy for another post. Today was not a day I’d wish on anyone…except those folks that think claustrophobia is a joke…