In Which I Fall

It’s a block from the subway to my apartment. One lousy block, but I opt not to wait until I’m home to check my email. It’s been four whole hours after all! I pull out my iPhone and began flicking through while I’m walking.

My toe hits the edge of the curb and doesn’t quite clear it. I stumble and shift to right myself. This is unsuccessful, and down I go.

My phone goes skittering out of my hands and lands several yards away. My knee hits the pavement first, ruining my favorite tights and the skin underneath. My hand hits next and my torso immediately after, right on top of it, bending the back of my fingers to the back of my hand. There are people who can do this easily, bend their fingers all the way backwards so it looks really gross but they’re totally fine. I am not one of those people.

With my face suddenly hovering over a stranger’s discarded gum, I breathe in and wonder what I should attend to first. I am vaguely aware that someone MUST have seen me, and they are probably looking at me wondering if they should help or not. People, the answer is, you should.  Always.  A minute later, two men do. One calls Rob and retrieves my phone. The other calls an ambulance and gives me his jacket. I am sitting up now and clutching my hand, unable to think of a word dirty enough to convey the level of pain I’m in. I opt for moaning and whimpering, and try to remember that this is an emergency, and so I should keep a clear head. I gasp out Rob’s phone number to the guy dialing, and feel sad thinking about how scared he will be when he answers.

Less than one minute later Rob is flying down the sidewalk, hair streaming out behind him like a cape. There was no time to put it into a ponytail, and I think, hazily, “He is so beautiful.” He hates it down, but I love it best that way.  He  kneels next to me, wraps his arms around me, and all that hair falls down around like a curtain. I press my forehead to his sternum and grit my teeth against the searing pain.

Pro tip: If you are not currently in love, you should make it a point to find someone who has a comforting chest into which you can cry while sitting, demoralized on a sidewalk, waiting for an ambulance.

“Can I see your hand?” the EMT asks. I’m still clutching it.

“No.” I say. “No.” I wrinkle my brow in what I hope is a scary face so he’ll back off. I know, logically, that I’m going to have to let go of my hand and let someone see it, but I am terrified.

He moves on, checking out everything else. My kneecap is fine. My head is fine, my spine is fine. They gather me up onto a stretcher and roll me in. I lower my head, totally ashamed at what I have done to myself. I hate the drama, I hate the attention, I hate the feeling of helplessness, and I hate that Rob is scared, although he is not too scared to “test your camera to make sure it still works” while we ride in an ambulance.

It’s ok, you can laugh.  I can’t look at this without laughing, too.

Uhhh… thanks, Rob.

We get to the hospital, and I get a chair to sit in. It is here that I have one of the most cathartic crys of my life. I forget to cry a lot, and then something happens that opens the floodgates (usually that something is “wine”, but “unexpected trip to the ER” works, too). I cry because it hurts, because I ruined my favorite stockings, because I won’t get to go to my friend Netta’s party, because I used to be able to pray to a higher being in these situations and now I can’t because I know that there isn’t one, because Rob is sad, because even with insurance this is going to be expensive, because I shouldn’t be crying – there are people way worse off than I in here, and because there is an old lady in the corner here alone, and that just isn’t fair.

After ten minutes I buck up, have some Motrin, and hop on Twitter.

Guys, what did we do before Twitter? Seriously.

The x-ray tech is, frankly, delicious. He is skinny and mocha-colored with deep brown eyes and thick curly hair. When he smiles his teeth gleam like sunbeams. I am using the cliche because it is so true.

“Did you give a urine sample?” he asked.

“No.” I say, “but I’m sure that I am not pregnant.”

“Are you SURE-sure?”

“Yes. And I’m NOT in a position to pee in a cup.”

He thinks for a moment, and then says ok.

The doctor comes after a bit to give the good news that I am without broken bones and can go home with an ace bandage on.  He has a kind face and is gentle as he wraps me up.

We come home, and I indulge in “dog therapy” (snuggling with more than one dog, easily done around these parts) and Domino’s cheesy bread.

My camera was ok, safely padded in it’s Epiphanie bag, and my iPhone was alright, too, having been safely encased in it’s Agent 18 recycled plastic phone case.  I highly recommend both.  That, and the comforting spouse in case of emergencies.  Just make sure to hide your camera.