This morning started off like any other morning. I woke up at five a.m., tried to not get out of bed before five-thirty, cleaned up and headed out the door by six a.m. That is when my day changed.
You see, since we here in the heart of the south are suffering a cold blast filled with snow, ice and basically nothing but non-motorcycle friendly weather, I was pleasantly surprised when I heard the weatherman said it would be in the forties today. I was dressed in my riding leathers, helmet and boots. When I stepped off my porch I immediately found myself staring up at the stars of the morning sky and my feet. My arms flailed uncontrollably and when I landed, five steps lower with the lower half of my body on the concrete, my lower back on the knife edge of the last step and nothing but white hot noise in my vision, I tried to breathe.
I don’t know how long I lay there, sprawled out like a chalk outline at a crime scene, but I do know I was gasping for breath when my neighbors walked up and started to speak to me. I don’t recall what was really said, something about hospitals and spouses. I shook my head, mumbled negative comments and something about getting to work all the while trying to do an appendage assessment. Right arm and hand, check. Left arm and hand, check. Head, check. Right leg and foot, check. Left leg and foot, insane pain. Torso, lower back, blazing white hot pain, shut it down.
I tried to move. In my mind I was moving like an acrobat, in reality, I was more like a flopping fish out of water. My neighbors pulled me up into the seated position, then tried to get me to my feet. I managed to get a semblance of balance then stumbled, pulled and willed my almost two hundred pound frame up the icy steps and to my front door. I assume my neighbors went to work thinking I was an utter lunatic. (Who am I to argue?)
My daughter, seeing my gimpy entrance, greeted my pained facial expressions with horrific concern of youth. I assured her I was okay and made my way slowly upstairs to where my wife was. Halfway up the steps, dragging my left leg and foot over each step in a slow, deliberate manner in an attempt to cause less pain and if I were seriously injured, less of that too, I realized I might not be able to ride my motorcycle to work. After all, my left foot was for shifting gears and I could barely lift it let alone think about utilizing all my facilities to operate that beautiful and complex machine.
My wife, hearing me stumble up the steps, came out from our cave of solace took one look at me and asked what happened. I told her I fell. She then wanted to take me to the hospital. I tsked tsked that notion. She then offered me a ride to work. I took her up on that offer.
Work was an interesting evolution. Tasks which normally take me forty-five minutes took me twice that time. My normal speed of movement was cut down by almost seventy-five percent. Fortunately for me the museum is closed on Monday and while it is my normal day off, the other technicians set up everything so all I have to do on Tuesday mornings is make sure all monitors are turned on and the exhibits work. It should have been an easy task. It was not. I spent most of the rest of my day trying to sit comfortably in my office chair and figure out how I’d work my part time job.
I worried, I plotted, I worried, I planned, I worried and I schemed.
Around noon I hobbled out of my office for a few minutes and when I returned I discovered I had a visitor. My wife. She gave me an ultimatum. Go home or go to the hospital. I chose home.
When I informed my co-workers and managers, they all seemed thankful for my wife’s interference in my hard headed life of non-stop go. Also, they seemed relieved I would not be scarring the children with my Quasimodo-like movement from point A to point B inside and outside of the museum.
I informed my part-time job of my affliction, folded myself painfully into the jeep and rode home where I soon fell asleep in an almost corpse-like position. I awoke hours later to silence. I ate more BC powder, tried to get out of bed and discovered the pain I had earlier experienced which had been absent while lying still, was still there.
So now, I’m lying in bed, surrounded by comic books, regular books, electronic devices, cookies and beverages. I’m not happy about it. I’d rather be working. I’d rather be doing something productive, but I can’t. My body says I can’t and it sucks. So what do I do? I write a blog about the wonderful nature of our soft, fleshy and easily wounded corporeal vessels which we are given for our short span of life.
Makes me want some type of robotic armor like in Robocop. I can’t see Robocop being hurt by slipping on some icy steps. Nope, he’d probably slip, fall, and then torch the whole porch. Then he’d go on to take out all the ice in the city. Yeah, that’d be cool and safe for the citizens.
Okay, enough rambling. Have a great week.