I grabbed a cup of cracked corn and went out the back door just before noon today to check on the chickens, because one of my three remaining birds is sick and I don’t expect her to live much longer.
When I stepped off the back porch slab onto a large flat stone we use as a step, I failed to notice that it was coated with glare ice, with predictable results. My feet flew out from under me and I landed HARD, slamming my lower back and upper hip bone against the edge of the stone I’d slipped on, and slamming my head against the edge of the concrete slab.
I let out a bellow of shock and pain you could probably hear two counties away, convinced I’d broken my hip, or worse, my spine. After waiting a few seconds, I cautiously moved my fingers, my toes, and then all four limbs. They all worked. Sofar, so good. I rolled over onto my side, not trusting my legs yet because I had wrenched my bad knee when I landed. As I got on my hands and knees and slowly tried to rise, I saw blood in the snow, on the porch slab, and dripping down my hands and neck. A lot of blood. My blood.
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Although the days when I was a svelte 110 pounds are long gone, I still like to read the fashion magazines while I stand in line at the grocery checkout, and imagine what new styles I would wear if I still had the body to carry them off.
I woke up late on Friday morning, so I had to race out the door without turning on the radio, which is why I didn’t hear about George Harrison’s passing until I was halfway to class. It was hard to pay attention to the road after that. Maybe it was late-semester stress or sleep deprivation, but the news hit me hard. It helped that almost every station on my car radio, including NPR, played his music in tribute. It was both painful and comforting to be reminded in such a direct way of whom we’d lost.