I had no idea when I wrote
Is It Brakes?
My husband Paul has taught me three important things about driving since we got married almost thirteen years ago. Two of them are specific to the driving culture of Massachusetts:
(last weekโs Jenn Story) that Iโd be writing this weekโs Jenn Story, because it hadnโt happened yet. Good thing there are five Wednesdays this month.
Iโm the part-time, sole pastor at a small New England church, and so my office hours are a bit nebulous, but most of the time I spend at least a little while in the building on both Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Last Thursday was a longer but also quieter day than some of late, and I left the building just shy of gloaming. It had snowed the weekend before, and then gotten very cold, so that the snow has stuck around longer than usual (itโs still here), which meant that thereโs still ice on the pavement.
I know what you think Iโm going to say, but Iโm not. Unlike last year when I was walking the dogs in my neighborhood and didnโt see the patch of black ice that I stepped on, causing me to slip, catch air, and land decisively on my tailbone, last Thursday I conscientiously avoided all the ice.
But see, my very comfy shearling bootsโwhich are perfect when spending a cold winterโs day in an antique, not exceptionally well-insulated buildingโmightโve been (read: definitely were and obviously still are) too big. While intently looking out for ice, I did not sufficiently account for the slope of the parking lot, nor the abysmal state of its tarmac, and my extra length of boot toe, to which my actual toe was oblivious, caught on one of the pavement bumps.
I mean. I guess thatโs what happened. One minute I was walking, and the next minute I was on my knees and then still falling, smashing my ribcage into another, larger pavement bump, unwittingly flinging my lunchbag and keys, while my backpack (fortunately for the computer, securely fastened to both shoulders) skewed and pulled to my left. It is, I feel, a miracle my face wasnโt involved in any of this mayhem.
At some point in the above process, I found myself yelling, and then I heard a manโs voice say, โOh my gโ! Let me call you back. Someone just fell.โ
I told this story (much more briefly and with fewer run-on sentences) on Bluesky, and a couple of people asked if I was embarrassed, but in fact I wasnโt. Generally I have one major fall a year, and it seems to alternate between being the fault of shoes and being the fault of ice. (Both, of course, in combination with my inherent clumsiness.) Most of the time when it happens, I yell as loudly as I know how, and rarely (except for the time my whole family and Paul and I were at the Portland Head Light and I fell right in front of them) does anyone hear me or come to help. The dog-walking fall happened as a neighbor was bringing his trash out down the hill and I think he looked up and saw me lying on the pavementโฆand then went back inside.
So to have someone actually notice my fall and come to help was unusual in my experience, and so greatly appreciated that embarrassment didnโt factor in even a little bit. Plus at this point all my nerves were registering quite a lot of pain in quite a number of locations and I was discovering that I literally could not raise myself from my prone position on my own. Knowing what I know about this municipal parking lot (our church doesnโt have its own), I was also acutely aware that the longer I lay there, the greater were my chances of getting run over by someone not paying attention.
The kind and solicitous man in the Pats sweatshirt helped me to my feet, and then retrieved the items I had flung, and then walked me the rest of the way to my car, continually asking, โAre you okay? Oh my gโ, are you okay?โ I wasnโt really sure how to answer that question, because I really wasnโt okay, but there also wasnโt anything else he could do about it.
I got in my car and assessed myself. Unlike the time at the lighthouse in Maine, my currently favorite jeans were not ripped, but my right knee was bruised and very very grazed and in need of a bandage. Nevertheless, it was not gushing, and could wait until I got home, with my pant leg rolled up and giving it air. I was shaking and extremely winded, but didnโt think my lungs were in danger. I was pretty sure, however, that I had cracked a couple of ribs. The whole left side of my ribcage was in agony, and I still donโt think it was only bruising.
But Stepping Into the Story was starting that night, and I didnโt have time, money, or inclination to sit in the ER for who could tell how many hours, to find out my ribs were broken and the best anyone could do would maybe be to tape them up. Ribs and toes both seem to be wait-it-out kinds of situations for the most part. I already knew this. So I drove home, loaded up on ibuprofen, and did what I needed to do. The class session was one of the best first-sessions Iโve ever had. Maybe pain helped me focus, or maybe this cohort is just really on it.
Anyway, Iโm still pretty sore. I never noticed before this how many movements involve chest muscles. Getting into and out of bed still feels like a kind of torture. Hiccups and sneezes likewise. Iโm off the ibuprofen, though, and I can move around a little better. Soโspeaking in faith and hope, certainlyโIโm glad that even though Iโm aging, Iโm still at an age where for the most part and for me, breaksโunlike brakesโdo get better.
Jenn! I'm slowly reading January posts. Hate I missed this when it happened. You and I could swap falling stories. They're only funny way, way, way afterward, though.
Oh goodness Jenn! ๐ซ