Halfway through the doctors' exam, as she was going through the "when you fall" protocol, that series of questions meant to make sure you're ok, she asked me, "Don't you write for the Star Tribune?"
It's always strange when someone recognizes you from writing a few stories or blogging a bit. On one hand you're honored but on the other, it's like being exposed. Right, I have to remind myself that people actually read what I write. In fact there's a piece of writing advice that says to imagine a specific person and write directly to that person. Not for me. My life may be an open blog but I prefer you all to be a benevolent but semi-anonymous group softly chuckling at my musings, without making me self-conscious or embarassed.
Back to knockin' my noggin...No, I'm not recycling material for this blog post, I fell and hit my head, hard, again. And it hurt just as bad as the last time when I took that tumble in NYC. All I could think along with the shock and awesome pain was how, how did I do this? Again?
Since returning a week ago, I've been out walking several times, wearing my cleats or heavy treaded boots. In fact I had picked my way over slick glazing on the lake trails the other day, in mincing steps and scooching shuffles. Finally getting home, I thought, yeah, I'm testing my luck.
That led me to "just walk down to the coffee shop" on Tuesday. The sidewalks were dusted but everything looked ok. The orange cone down where it slopes ever so slightly didn't register. They were installing pipes before I left in January and there were cones everywhere. Apparently that particular orange cone was warning about a slippery spot.
Whoosh! And I was flat on my back.
I lay there trying to get my wits. The ice was cold and wet and seeping into my clothes but I couldn't get up. I heard several cars go by and then one slowed. A woman's voice called out, are you ok? I was truthful, I muttered, I don't know. She pulled her car around while I tried to stand up, but I had to kneel down such was the nausea. She tried to help me over the pile of crusted snow but I worried I would pull her down with me.
After several false starts a man appeared and hoisted me over the hump of snow. He found my glasses that had flown off my face. And then my savior drove me home. Late for a meeting she sat with me and then called a nurse from our street to come and sit with me when she left. I called a neighbor and she too came over, concerned about me. This was all extremely comforting since my husband was at that moment somewhere in the deep interior of Brazil with only spotty communication. To think I had been worried about him coming to harm.
So this is what it's come to for now, an indoor track. No ice, no fun. The snow can't melt soon enough.
I'd like to thank Louise, Jan, Donna, Dean and the nameless man for helping me. I haven't been lived here long but they re-confirmed that Linden Hills is a great neighborhood and I'm lucky to live here.