Thursday, January 16, 2020
I was so excited. A 45-minute old-fashioned sleigh ride in fresh snow over the rolling hills of southern Vermont. A rustic, elegant dinner with Kim. A stay in the only cabin on the horse farm among the majesty and regality of the Friesians. Snowshoeing. It was going to be an epic throw-back weekend escape for my 59th birthday.
Slow motion, like a redwood beginning to fall in a forest. Barely discernible movement at first, as if suspended in air. Then, visible loss of equilibrium as the tree's center of mass begins to shift. Timber. Straight. Accelerating. Gaining momentum for the inevitable collision that would occur in seconds...seconds that seemed like minutes.
Except it wasn't a tree. And it wasn't in the forest. It was me. In my room.
The impact with the sharp wooden edge of my bed frame was violent. I had turned less than an inch to the side, but it was enough to start a chain of actions and reactions. My feet stuck in quicksand, and all natural instincts but panic failing me, my eyes glared at the wooden edge, willing it to bend in sympathy, knowing it wouldn't, but hoping it might.
The Result: 10th, 11th and 12th broken ribs in my lower back. Threat to my ski and snowshoe season. Challenge to my psyche...
The Good News: The primary impact was to my ribs-- not my head. I could eventually crawl to my phone to call for help. I have 24-hour, 5-star help. I'm still hopeful to salvage the winter, and see at least one sun-drenched day on the slopes, a moon-lit snowshoe hike, and yes-- the sleigh ride (!) in my near future. At least. Onward!
