Monday, 25 April 2016

Hitting the floor

A week ago I fell. Not one of those small, inconsequential trips easily disguised by a quick double step and wry smile; but a messy, flailing, uncoordinated affair, played out in public. One minute I was balancing carrots and tomatoes in overburdened hands, the next I was hurtling towards a room divider; frantically twisting to avoid full impact.  I landed, as gravity decreed I must, hard; shoulder first upon unforgiving floor, as discarded vegetables rained down around me.
 In my head, I pictured jumping up with a loud " tah daaaaaaaaaaa" and comedic curtesy; but in truth I sat, dazed and clammy,  watching blood slowly dripping onto lino.
The quiet chatter of concerned colleagues faded into white noise; my body bracing at the first wave of pulsating pain. Eyes closed, I focused through each assault...  in two three; out two three....breath technique from maternal memory riding the surge and fall. And then, through half closed eyes, a flash of green uniform  proffering the welcome suck and hiss of gas and air, that pushed pain into dark recesses as I finally rose to my feet.

 So here I sit, my upper arm and left eye a palette of colour; greens and blues slowly seeping into deepest of purple. No plaster cast or tapestry of steristrips; just a simple collar and cuff to immobilise broken bone and a scar, newly formed, to dissect my eyebrow and lend a rakish air.