Sunday, 6:30a.m., walking the dogs, I fell on the ice. I wasn’t the only one.
I walked out to check the road, and I satisfied myself that we wouldn’t be driving anywhere. We’d be playing it safe and warm, cocooning, staying off the highway because it was slipperier than goose grease. I turned back toward the house, took a few steps, and suddenly my feet were in the air and I was falling flat on my back on the frozen ground. I landed on the rhomboids and the lats, with a graceful occipital bounce at the finish. I saw stars and I thought my back was broken.
I began to bellow and roar, expressing the pain and calling for help. The dogs were there immediately, waiting for clear instructions. “Frnarg, groff, owww,” I told them and I lay there in the dark looking at the lights in the house. I rolled over onto my knees and got up before they could lick me to death. Moving was maybe not wise if my back was broken, but then if my back was broken how could I move? I shuffled forward like some kind of wounded gorilla. Beth opened the front door and I was pathetically grateful that she had heard me. She gathered up the dogs, and I staggered inside, shed my coat, stepped out of my boots and lay down on the living room couch.
The couch was wrong, it provided no support. Supercharged with adrenalin, I got up again, lumbered upstairs, disrobed, and lay down on the bed. And there I stayed all day yesterday. Moving was painful, and standing up to shuffle to the bathroom was agony.
Today I simply ache. I’m avoiding the kind of arm movements that tortured me yesterday. In fact, while I’m ambulatory today, able to make a pot of coffee and sit here for a few minutes, I think it’s really time for me to get horizontal once more, maybe watch some teevee…