My work week had an interesting beginning on Tuesday. I will spare you the photo of my face and bruises, but here is what my glasses looked like after Emily cleaned off the blood and bits of skin and bent them from a twisted mess of metal to something reminiscent of a glasses shape. I'm pretty sure the nose pieces are not supposed to look like that and their position in this photo might explain the deep gashes in my face.
Several people hipper than I told me I should tell people who asked what happened to me that I flipped off my mountain bike coming down some gnarly run, but since I don't own a mountain bike and couldn't possibly use the word "gnarly" with any amount of sincerity, I will tell you the truth.
I fell down the stairs.
I am 39 years old (and will be for the rest of my life as far as I'm concerned despite a looming birthday) and even at such a young and tender age, apparently falling down the stairs is possible.
I got out of bed and tried to coax my dog to go downstairs before me. The stairs are steep, she is old, and she hates them. She followed me down and was using me for a human shield to keep herself from falling... and about halfway down she stepped on my flip flop.
It was my right flip flop.
My hands were full.
I landed on my face at the bottom and am still finding various bruises. Honestly, once I stopped screaming long enough to realize I was still alive, all I could think was that I was grateful I didn't break my neck. Working in rehabilitation, I often worry about things like breaking my neck (hitting my head a little too hard, getting some kind of cancer they don't find until it has metastasized everywhere, getting my legs run over by a train, you know, every day kind of stuff). Perhaps because I see such a disproportionate number of people who have been severely injured and I am convinced that this could happen to me also. But apparently not everyone who falls down a flight of stairs is irreparably damaged. I only hope the scars heal before my wedding this summer.
Oh, and a big part of my job as an occupational therapist is teaching older people to do things like pick up their throw rugs (they almost never do this), consider getting a bird or perhaps a fish instead of a pet that can trip them (they never do this either), and to use the handrail if, for gods-sake, they can't move to a house without stairs. At least I can now say that this is what happens when you don't use the handrail or trade your dog for a nice hamster in a cage.