- I can't parallel park. No, seriously, I can't. Physically, intellectually, I can't do it. I can't seem to make the car do what I know it needs to do. Something gets crossed somewhere between my brain and my hands, signals get all confounded and muddled. It doesn't work. I don't think I would have ever gotten my license if the guy giving the test hadn't actually told me what to do.
- I've never had a broken bone. In 34 years, I've never broken a bone. I'm going for a world record.
- I've never had stitches. Impossible you say, since you know full well I've had 3 babies ripped from my body. Nope, they used clips to close that up. On the outside. On the inside I'm sure they used stitches but I don't count that because I never actually saw them............
THE DAY I RIPPED MY NEW TIGHTS
(also known as The Day the Basement Stairs Nearly Took Me Out)
Sunday started out just like any other Sunday. I drug myself out of bed, got in the shower, got dressed, fought with the boys, got them dressed, fought with them while I got them dressed, fought with them while we got them into the car, went to Sunday School, fought with them at Sunday School, sat through church, and fought with them at church just the same as every other Sabbath. This particular Sunday though was going to be special because we had the neighbors coming over for supper and bringing the boys Christmas presents. We were so excited. We don't get company much, especially for supper, so we get excited when it happens. "J", "I", "M" and "C" (again, we at Country Girls blog use only initials or nicknames to protect the innocent), were coming over at 2:30 for steaks, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and coconut cream pie, none of which had been started prior to church.
So, when church and the following baptism were over, we rushed home and I immediately started preparing supper. I didn't even have time to run upstairs to change like I usually do. I put on my best apron, which, coincidentally matched my outfit, and got to work. By 2:30 supper was not done but it was pretty close. Everyone except me was in the living room. The boys initially wouldn't participate but they got warmed up and started showing off. They opened their gifts and were happy to have them. The last thing that I had cooking on the stove was just about done, my carrots were glazing away, when I decided to go downstairs to the basement to get the boys' little table and chairs. No big deal. I thought about yelling for the hubby but didn't want to take him away from the company and leave them to entertain themselves, so I did it. It's not anything I haven't done at least a thousand, possibly a million times before. If this is exaggerated it is only mildly so. You know, put one foot on the step, put the other on the step. Put one foot on the next step, put the other foot on the next step. Put one foot on the step, put the other foot on the step.
Now, this is where things got complicated. I put my foot on the third step. I put my other foot on the third step. I moved my foot to put it on the fourth step. Easy enough, right. You'd certainly think so. I'm mean, I've been walking for slightly more than 2 dozen years (it's my blog, I can pretend), I should have mastered it by now. Practice makes perfect and all that. When I moved my left foot to the 4th step, my foot went, my leg went, my entire body went, my tights did not. It should be said that, at this time my carrots were still on the stove, glazing away. It should also be said that I'd only opened these tights and worn them once before. And I paid 5 dollars for them.
There was a nail on the step sticking up just a bit. I knew it. I stepped on it on a regular basis. Up until this point it had been uncomfortable but not a threat to life or limb. This time, my tights got caught on it. You might be wondering why I was walking down in an only mildly clean and extremely dusty basement with no shoes on. I'll thank you to mind your own business and continue with my narrative. When your tights get caught on a nail on the third step of a stairway, your body's momentum and gravity act in a way that send you hurdling down the stairs. It's physics, look it up. I knew I was going and I knew there wasn't a blessed thing I could do to stop it. I think that was the smartest thought that went through my head the entire day because I think it kept me from stiffening up. I hit the stairs hard on the right side of my body then went, as I'm fond of saying, head over teakettle down the steps. I hit every singles step I think, except maybe the 4th one which I'm pretty sure I sailed over. If you know anything about basements, you know they're not usually floored with thick gymnastics-style mats. Ours is no exception, so, when I finally came to a stop it was on a cold, hard, concrete floor. Again with the physics, what happens when an stationary object meets a moving object, they take on the characteristics of each other meaning the immovable object will absorb the force of the moving object and move a bit. The moving object will absorb the force of the stationary object and slow down. Let's just say that I didn't feel the floor move. What does that mean? SPLAT!
BigBK heard the entire ordeal as I'd left the basement door open and he'd been standing or playing nearby. He yelled, "Mommy, are you alright?" I don't think I answered him other than to moan and groan because, with complete sincerity, that was all I could do. I was hurting more than I'd ever hurt before. I couldn't move. I tried. You know, walk it off. I tried to get up. I couldn't make so much as one part of my body move. I heard "I" upstairs tell the hubby that I'd fallen. I'm pretty sure his response was, "Huh?" because that's his response to everything. That's where my baby gets it from. Eventually they came for me. Hubby rushed down the stairs to where I laid, sprawled on the concrete. I remember him asking me if I was alright. I'm not sure I answered because I didn't have breath in my lungs to form a response. And I was hurting. Badly.
Now, Hubby is not really that great in an emergency. He'lll admit that. It would be a waste of his time to deny it. He was trying to get me off of the floor. He asked if I could get up. I think I told him finally that I couldn't move. I told him that my tights had gotten caught and I thought I'd torn them. I was upset about that. I also told him to turn the stove off. Like I said, my carrots were still glazing. I didn't want them to burn. The message went up the stairs along with the message to call 911. That decision was made when I finally managed to lift my upper body up on my hands and hubby discovered that there was blood pouring from somewhere in the vicinity of my skull. That pretty much did him in. Seriously. "I" went to fetch a pillow and a blanket as well as a towel. The towel was to staunch the bleeding. The pillow and the blanket were to make me comfortable on the cold floor while we awaited the ambulance. By the time she'd gotten downstairs Hubby had already had me off the floor and walked to the couch in the basement. Probably not a good decision considering I'd just went SPLAT on a concrete floor, but like I said, he's not so good in an emergency.
When I'd gotten off the floor and onto the couch, I'd discovered that about 12 inches of the left leg of my tights were hanging beyond my toes. I made hubby pull it up because it looked ridiculous. He did it when I sat on the couch. Still, I was in an inordinate amount of pain. My middle right finger hurt so badly I was worried that it was broken. There was a pain just under my left breast that kept me from taking a deep breath. The blood didn't worry me too bad as I know scalp injuries bleed alot but this pain did. I was afraid I'd broken a rib or punctured my lung. It was only a couple of minutes after I laid down on the couch that I heard a siren. As if the fact that I fell down the stairs was not embarrassing enough, now the entire hollow was going to know about it. I think I said something to that effect. A lady came downstairs. She was examining me for broken bones. She said once EMS arrives...something, something, something. I wasn't concentrating on her words beyond that first part. I thought, if EMS isn't here, then who are you? But I didn't ask that. I assumed she was a volunteer firefighter from the Fallsburg Department. She was very nice. She told me that she didn't think my sweater was ruined by the blood on my sleeve when I suggested that it was. You know me, I'm nothing if not concerned with my attire.
At some points during this ordeal, two things happened. I'm not sure at what points because I was almost delirious with pain but, sometime I realized that I didn't have my glasses. They were procured for me. At some other point, "I" told Hubby that he should retrieve my shoes. I told him they were in the utility room. He brought me a pair of loafers that's I'd worn while I trimmed back the shrubs the day before. They were covered with mud. I thought about telling him to get me the others from the utility room but he was so upset I didn't think it would be appropriate. EMS eventually arrived. They asked me if I was having any pain anywhere other than my left breast. I told them that I might be but that particular pain was so sever that it was all I could concentrate on. They put a C-Collar around my neck, which was incredibly uncomfortable then duct taped me to a backboard, which was more uncomfortable. Yes, I said duct taped me to a back board. They used duct tape. Of course I never saw it, what with the paralyzing pain and the C-Collar making it impossible to move my head. But I have it on good authority from everyone involved that they'd used duct tape. As they carried me out of the house, I said, "I guess this is one way to meet people from Fallsburg." That's just how I am, hilarious in the face of the worst trauma. Awesome, huh.
"I" strong-armed the EMTs into taking me to Ashland to the hospital rather than Louisa. I continued to badger them when they got me into the ambulance. I don't have good relationship with one particular ER doc at Three Rivers. I might explain that at another time, but, suffice it to say that it has colored my entire view of that organization. They called some person and got permission to do so as all of my lung sounds were fine and my blood pressure was 130/70. So, we made the trip to Ashland with me duct taped to a backboard.
This story will be continued at a later date, possibly this evening when I can get to it with no interruptions. You know the way it ends. I survive. Obviously. I want to add pictures but Hubby refuses to take a picture of my scalp or my bruises and the pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs is already gone.
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