I thrust out my hand to break the fall. It’s the only thing that keeps me from fracturing a hip, or so I imagine. Even so, I land so hard on my ass it forces all the breath out of me. My dogs hover in close, helpless care-takers sniffing at me tentatively, as if their noses can decipher why their human is suddenly on the ground moaning. They cock their heads in unison, awaiting instruction. I lay there a moment gasping, and as my breath returns I use it first for cursing. I curse the neighbor for not clearing the sidewalk. Curse my poor choice in footwear. I curse the black ice hiding beneath a blanket of fresh powder.
I even have a few choice words for my mom. Not because I think this is somehow her fault, but because she is in her mid-seventies, has osteoporosis (“thin bones,” as she puts it), lives in mortal fear of ice, and yet refuses to move to a warm climate. Understand, she is of north eastern, middle-class heritage, and thus culturally (and possibly even genetically) predisposed to move to Florida at this point in her life. The fact that she won’t allow my dad to even think of moving them south has to do with her fear of running out of money, or “living too long,” as she puts it. The whole topic makes me a little crazy. And for this reason I have recorded hours and hours of HGTV’s “Beachfront Bargain” episodes, that I plan to make her watch on her next visit, as proof that she can indeed afford to not kill herself on Michigan ice.
Regaining my feet, I take a few stiff test steps. A jagged pang shoots through my hip each time my left foot comes down. I resolve to finish the dog walk as best I can. Maybe I can walk off the pain. Maybe I’ll call an ambulance. I consider the dearth of medications in my house. Possibly there would be Tylenol. Maybe a shot of tequila, but definitely there are no serious pain meds. Then I remember my dog’s leftover Tramadol scrip from an earlier injury. And thus it seems the dogs will be of some help after all. I’m certain I can Google the correct human dosage when I get home. Sure, an internet search on human consumption of veterinary meds is bound to get red-flagged and logged on some server somewhere, along with every other naughty search I’ve ever done, but I accept those terms. My server full of shameful, funny and pathetic internet searches is probably sitting right there next to yours in some impossibly large room filled with blinking LEDs. All of our online activity - if it can be called that - tracked, compiled and ready for mining, for all of eternity. Then so be it. At least I’ll get my dosage right.
Before long the stabbing subsides to a dull ache, and I decide my misfortune is the stuff of bruises and not breaks. I limp home buoyed by the sheer thrift of appropriating my dog’s unused opioids. And that, my friends, is what hope looks like on this icy midwinter night.
“Promise me we can move to Florida before I shatter my pelvis on black ice” are my first words as I come in the house. “Or Southern California or Hawaii. Not now, but in like 10 years.” I love Colorado, but I am not willing to die on her ice.
In the lottery-winning fantasy version of my life, I buy my mom and dad a home somewhere warm. It could still happen, but generous feelings don’t constitute a plan, so instead I badger them to spend their own money to move south. I suppose if I were serious about helping them I shouldn’t have bailed out of the corporate world at the peak of my prime earning years. No one ever said becoming an artist makes business sense, but I had to make a go of it. Time will tell if that was ultimately smart or totally selfish. I haven’t a clue yet.
In the meantime, I try to find a comfortable position on my sofa, but as it turns out, there is no comfort in sitting, standing, lying down, or any combination thereof. A bruised ass is just going to hurt. A lot. So consider this another learn-from-my-mistakes installment. A topic I seem to return to often. And just so you know, 25 mg of Tramadol - or half one of those little doggie pills - taken 4 times a day should mask a fair amount of pain (thank you internet). You’ll still feel sore, but you won’t care so much. That’s the best I’ve got for a takeaway.
Be careful. It’s brutal out there.
