Here I am.
I'm sore. I'm tired. I feel like sitting on the couch and watching TV.
I'm turning into one of those old women who fall. I hate being the woman who falls. Last Sunday, I missed a step that I'd always thought would trip me some day.
I was at church. There was a chair and I thought I'd take a load off, so I put my right hand on the back of it in case it skittered away from under me as I turned to sit.
I forgot about the odd half step in front of it and instead of sitting or even turning, I rocked that chair backward on two legs and proceeded to splay over it.
Great, an embarrassing moment.
Then, the pain hit.
Did you ever notice that for a hard fall, it takes more time for pain to arrive? What is that? Is my brain temporarily out of service? Do hard knocks take longer to traverse my neural pathways? Do I have clutz's block?
"Are you okay?" a half dozen voices said in unison.
"I, I, I ... just give me a minute," I said as the bell of pain continued to chime. I sat there with my mouth open and my eyes unfocused.
When the chair had rocked backward, the seat had come up deep under my right breast and made contact at my right rib. I dropped my left hand to the floor and over-extended my ring and middle fingers. Wait, I needed my middle finger for important driving messages. And my right knee hit the edge of the step.
Finally, the pain subsided enough for me to say something.
"Sh...," I edited half way through a non-church word. "That felt like a mammogram!"
Everybody laughed. My right breast had just encountered the same kind of smash and pull maneuver that a sadistic technician had once performed on it during a procedure that left me sore for a couple of weeks.
I sat very still for a bit while people tut-tutted over me and repeated their question. Finally, I got up slowly and said, "I'm okay now. Thank you."
I hate being the center of that kind of attention. Then, I shuffled to the back of the sanctuary and sat down for the services, fiddling with a little bottle of Aleve that I had in my bag for just such gymnastic adventures at the altar. I endured while a few more people patted me on the shoulder as they moved toward their places. I pulled out gum. I don't have grandkids, but I keep gum in my purse for long sermons. The kids around me love this. I have learned to chew without actually looking like I'm masticating. It's a gift. I'll show you how if you want.The kids are never that great at being discreet and I think the minister is on to me.
I kept my head down and bolted home right after the benediction. There was no way I could stay and chat.
When I got home, I brought Mike into the bathroom with me while I looked for evidence of my self-abuse.
Nothing.
Seriously? My middle finger felt like it might be broken and even went numb as Mike poked and prodded like a TV doctor.
"I don't feel anything broken."
"Well then, look at this."
To hell with my middle finger and my sore knee. I lifted my right arm to show him the rib where I landed on the edge of the chair.
Nothing.
It just looked like I was flashing him the high beams with my arm raised in the air. He raised one eyebrow. I hate when he does that.
"I really did hit it. Hard."
"I have no doubt you did, but I don't think you broke a rib. Does it hurt when you breathe?" He even sounded like a TV doctor
"No. Not at all, but it hurts when I reach for anything or bounce."
"So don't reach for anything or bounce," he said.
"Thank you, Doctor Mike."
"No problem. Do you want me to look at your knee?"
"No, it's just sore, not flattened by a truck."
"Ice and Aleve, then."
"Got it," I muttered. I finally lowered my shirt, as if a bruise might have appeared while we still talked.
Nothing.
Then, I spent the next four days trying to keep from reaching or bouncing. Or being compressed. All week, people seemed to want to hug me. It was impossible. I lived on a regimen of Aleve and ice until last night when I thought I could feel a little less swelling in my rib and remembered less often that I had squashed a melon.
That night, I dreamed that my right breast was six inches longer than the other one. I woke up from this very realistic dream after sleeping only four hours. When I prepared to get into the shower, I happened to look in the mirror again.
I had a black and purple bruise the size of my open hand almost completely hidden under all that fluff. When Doctor Mike got home, I brought him back into the bathroom to show him evidence of my pain.
"The stupid bruises always appears when it's starting to feel better."
"Wow. That really looks like someone is abusing you."
"Yeah, that would be me."
And he hugged me, but not too tightly.
Thank you for listening, jb
I'm sore. I'm tired. I feel like sitting on the couch and watching TV.
I'm turning into one of those old women who fall. I hate being the woman who falls. Last Sunday, I missed a step that I'd always thought would trip me some day.
I was at church. There was a chair and I thought I'd take a load off, so I put my right hand on the back of it in case it skittered away from under me as I turned to sit.
I forgot about the odd half step in front of it and instead of sitting or even turning, I rocked that chair backward on two legs and proceeded to splay over it.
Great, an embarrassing moment.
Then, the pain hit.
Did you ever notice that for a hard fall, it takes more time for pain to arrive? What is that? Is my brain temporarily out of service? Do hard knocks take longer to traverse my neural pathways? Do I have clutz's block?
"Are you okay?" a half dozen voices said in unison.
"I, I, I ... just give me a minute," I said as the bell of pain continued to chime. I sat there with my mouth open and my eyes unfocused.
When the chair had rocked backward, the seat had come up deep under my right breast and made contact at my right rib. I dropped my left hand to the floor and over-extended my ring and middle fingers. Wait, I needed my middle finger for important driving messages. And my right knee hit the edge of the step.
Finally, the pain subsided enough for me to say something.
"Sh...," I edited half way through a non-church word. "That felt like a mammogram!"
Everybody laughed. My right breast had just encountered the same kind of smash and pull maneuver that a sadistic technician had once performed on it during a procedure that left me sore for a couple of weeks.
I sat very still for a bit while people tut-tutted over me and repeated their question. Finally, I got up slowly and said, "I'm okay now. Thank you."
I hate being the center of that kind of attention. Then, I shuffled to the back of the sanctuary and sat down for the services, fiddling with a little bottle of Aleve that I had in my bag for just such gymnastic adventures at the altar. I endured while a few more people patted me on the shoulder as they moved toward their places. I pulled out gum. I don't have grandkids, but I keep gum in my purse for long sermons. The kids around me love this. I have learned to chew without actually looking like I'm masticating. It's a gift. I'll show you how if you want.The kids are never that great at being discreet and I think the minister is on to me.
I kept my head down and bolted home right after the benediction. There was no way I could stay and chat.
When I got home, I brought Mike into the bathroom with me while I looked for evidence of my self-abuse.
Nothing.
Seriously? My middle finger felt like it might be broken and even went numb as Mike poked and prodded like a TV doctor.
"I don't feel anything broken."
"Well then, look at this."
To hell with my middle finger and my sore knee. I lifted my right arm to show him the rib where I landed on the edge of the chair.
Nothing.
It just looked like I was flashing him the high beams with my arm raised in the air. He raised one eyebrow. I hate when he does that.
"I really did hit it. Hard."
"I have no doubt you did, but I don't think you broke a rib. Does it hurt when you breathe?" He even sounded like a TV doctor
"No. Not at all, but it hurts when I reach for anything or bounce."
"So don't reach for anything or bounce," he said.
"Thank you, Doctor Mike."
"No problem. Do you want me to look at your knee?"
"No, it's just sore, not flattened by a truck."
"Ice and Aleve, then."
"Got it," I muttered. I finally lowered my shirt, as if a bruise might have appeared while we still talked.
Nothing.
Then, I spent the next four days trying to keep from reaching or bouncing. Or being compressed. All week, people seemed to want to hug me. It was impossible. I lived on a regimen of Aleve and ice until last night when I thought I could feel a little less swelling in my rib and remembered less often that I had squashed a melon.
That night, I dreamed that my right breast was six inches longer than the other one. I woke up from this very realistic dream after sleeping only four hours. When I prepared to get into the shower, I happened to look in the mirror again.
I had a black and purple bruise the size of my open hand almost completely hidden under all that fluff. When Doctor Mike got home, I brought him back into the bathroom to show him evidence of my pain.
"The stupid bruises always appears when it's starting to feel better."
"Wow. That really looks like someone is abusing you."
"Yeah, that would be me."
And he hugged me, but not too tightly.
Thank you for listening, jb
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