Don't Try This at Home, Kids

I like to playfully characterize this stage of my life as my dotage.  Actually there's not much funny in it, but one does what one can, laughs at what one can.  I have found as I'm aging that I've developed a fear of falling.   I step carefully (usually) and slither down the stairs gingerly.  This is why the companion fantasy to my fear is a nice little open-concept bungalow with a main floor laundry which we've been pursuing for about 5 years now, but that's a story for another day.

 So it was a surprise and shock when I took a hard tumble in the driveway the other day.  We were loading the grandkiddiddles into the car and about to load in the stroller.  I don't know what I did - something like got my foot caught in the stroller, don't remember that part but do remember that sickening feeling when you're going down hard and can't stop it from happening.  In a nano-second you're processing the event and you're seized with regret, aghast at the potential outcome. (had that same groaning regret one time when I took an unscripted tumble on stage and was just hoping it looked convincing, while my family was out in the audience debating, "did she mean to do that?")  Must be something like that proverbial life-passing-before-the-eyes, or that phenomenon I read about Gretzky years ago, that he thinks in slo-mo.

 Anyhoo, I went down smack on my face.  My very expensive prescription sunglasses popped off my face and into pieces, none of which shattered and maimed me irreparably.  But I groaned at the sight of their disfigurement around about the time I was pulling myself up from a pool of blood (blood is so theatrical) dripping onto my coat and the driveway, trying to collect myself into the house, while my husband was yelling "Hey, hey!"  "Bring the kids back into the house",  I countered,  "and you get going". (we had been on our way to a doctor's appt for him)
 " No",  says he, "we're going to get you some stitches",  whereupon an argument broke out as to whether I required stitches, and I suggested to him that we did not want to be sitting in triage for 2 or more hours with 2 small tired and hungry children.  He then proceeded to phone the doctor to ask could he exchange his appt with them for one with me, to get stitches, and they pointed out to him that such a procedure is done at emergency and not at the doctor's office.  So we're off down to the hospital, me with a cold wet washcloth on my eye/forehead and he grunting why the hell can't a doctor fix you in his office, stupidest thing he's ever heard.   And the 3 yr old in the back seat being very philosophical adds,  "We were about to go downtown, then BOOM!"


 A pleasant surprise awaits us at the renovated emergency entrance, which I haven't visited for ages since my children decided to grow up and stop hurting themselves, or at least to stop requiring my assistance when they did so.  There were few people there; they took me quickly, didn't stitch me ( told you so) but taped me up and gave me the " read this carefully head injury admonition sheet".  One of the caveats is that someone must monitor me and wake me every two hours.  So here's my aging spouse who is struggling to get over a nasty cold, who is meant to drag himself out and wake me regularly, me who is just learning how to get through a night without waking herself constantly.  I threatened him that if he woke me he'd be sporting a shiner too.  But later the younger daughter phoned and said remember what happened to Natasha Richardson, yada yada, so he actually did check me through the night.  I felt so special. (!)

 Meanwhile we amused ourselves by taking pix of the progression of puffing and discolouring on my face, like the old Disney time-lapse photogaphy from our young days. (We clearly have too much time on our hands)   And we made up many giggles about the story to accompany the messed up face.  We might have just left that alone because any friends/relatives we encountered had their own fun with it.

Most of the humour was premised on an assumption that hubby had popped me, so he soon grew tired of it and a little too defensive, a sure sign of guilt.  One of my favourite lines was our Palestinian friend who took Collin by the shoulder and said,  "I'm only going to talk about this once, then I'll speak to the Imam".  And a woman with a shiner can evoke interesting responses from strangers, mostly discomfort it seems.  Went to the eye doctor next day to ask if they could rescue my sunglasses which had suffered worse than I. (They had played an ironic role in the event.  My eye was wearing a ring clearly identifiable as the shape of a large lens so the glasses had been the culprit, but I think they had also taken a lot of the impact)  SO at the optometrist's office many employees and patients were giving furtive glances, no one asking or joking, when  I wanted an opportunity to explain what was far more innocent than what they surmised.

 What do we learn from this boys and girls? That any nasty little incident can provide its own fun.  Ain't life grand. Oh, and, my sunglasses are now good as new.