New Yorker 2011So I survived a week of the way people dress and drive in Florida, the flight there and back, just to trip on a shoe and fall the first day home.

From the house into the garage, there is a step, off which I stepped onto a shoe I couldn’t see and fell— in slo-mo— to klaxtons wailing and a newscaster declaiming: She’s going dowwwwwn! My left ankle twisted, my torso pitched inexorably forward to land on hands in push-up position. Both elbows sproing! oing! oing!ed, I bounced up, then down, my right cheek brushed the concrete floor, and— Wham! Time sped up to the usual.

I lay there, amazed I hadn’t smashed my face. What a save!

Then I kicked myself— metaphorically, of course. I couldn’t move, the breath was knocked out of me. What an idiot! Why wasn’t I wearing my glasses? Why hadn’t I turned on the light? What was I thinking, stepping down like that into the dark, knowing Hubby’s and Son’s habit of shedding shoes randomly in the line of traffic. Well, I wasn’t thinking. Obviously.

Gingerly, I tested body parts. Left ankle: wrenched. But if positioned just so, it bore my weight. Good. Right wrist: jammed. But I had full range of motion and all the fingers worked. Good. I looked for the offending shoe. Mine! I couldn’t even blame Hubby. What a screw.

The ankle worried me. I hobbled to the kitchen and prepared dinner. The right hand—my dominant hand— wouldn’t hold the chef’s knife. I used the left.

Finally, duty done, I filled two zip lock baggies with ice and laid down, layering them over left ankle and right wrist. The cold was killing, but I endured it for fifteen minutes. The ankle came around nicely. The right hand remained swollen, and hurt. Eating dinner, I had trouble holding the fork. I joked, “Maybe I won’t be able to go to work.”

Meanwhile, Son complained of a sickie stomach. Hubby joshed him, “You and Mom! Don’t want to go to school tomorrow, eh?”

Son spent half the night puking and pooping. By morning, he was fully recovered and went to class. I, on the other hand (ha) couldn’t hold a pen. How was I going to write prescriptions and progress notes?

I cancelled patients, and went for x-rays. My doc called, “Well, you win the prize!”

“Oh good!” I said, feeling like a hypochondriac. “It’s not broken!”

“No, it’s broken. See the orthopod tomorrow.”

Should I scold myself to pay more attention in future? Why? It would be stupid to expect a perfect score. In thirty-plus years of living with Hubby and his shoes, this is only the second time I’ve slipped on one. So it was my shoe. So it was my thirtieth anniversary. (Thank you.) The irony does not escape me. Just God having a little fun. Giving me a little gag gift. Reminding me that to stupid is human, to forgive divine.