Is It Breaks?

Breaks *better* get better, is all I'm saying

I had no idea when I wrote

(last week’s Jenn Story) that I’d be writing this week’s Jenn Story, because it hadn’t happened yet. Good thing there are five Wednesdays this month.

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I’m 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 (it’s still here), which meant that there’s still ice on the pavement.

I know what you think I’m going to say, but I’m not. Unlike last year when I was walking the dogs in my neighborhood and didn’t 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 boots—which are perfect when spending a cold winter’s day in an antique, not exceptionally well-insulated building—might’ve 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 that’s 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 wasn’t involved in any of this mayhem.

At some point in the above process, I found myself yelling, and then I heard a man’s voice say, “Oh my g—! Let me call you back. Someone just fell.”

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 wasn’t. 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 pavement…and 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 didn’t 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 doesn’t 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, “Are you okay? Oh my g—, are you okay?” I wasn’t really sure how to answer that question, because I really wasn’t okay, but there also wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 don’t think it was only bruising.

But Stepping Into the Story was starting that night, and I didn’t 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 I’ve ever had. Maybe pain helped me focus, or maybe this cohort is just really on it.

Anyway, I’m 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. I’m off the ibuprofen, though, and I can move around a little better. So—speaking in faith and hope, certainly—I’m glad that even though I’m aging, I’m still at an age where for the most part and for me, breaks—unlike brakes—do get better.