Tuesday, October 28, 2014
A couple of weeks ago, after helping Middle Son in to the car before he and Mr A took off for an early run to school for band practice, I ran up my driveway to get out of the rain and as soon as my (very wet) feet hit the garage floor they slipped out from under me and I landed on my back.
I promptly burst in to tears. I mean, yes, it hurt (I hit my head as I went down - not too hard though, thankfully. Actually, it was my foot that immediately started to hurt - I'd cut it on the lawnmower as I fell), but the tears were more due to the shock and frustration of what happened. Mr A immediately got out of the car to assist, and I could hear a woman in the distance - probably on her morning walk - asking, 'Is she okay?' After Mr A determined it was unlikely I had a concussion (although, I was under strict instruction to text him every hour to let him know I was still alive), and after giving reassurances that I was fine, Middle Son gave me a longer than normal hug goodbye (awww...) and they were on their way.
About five minutes later, the initial shock having subsided, I suddenly realised I had an enormous, shooting pain in my left elbow. I administered an ice pack, and ended up wearing it for the whole school run with my other two boys. It was on my return from school that I realised it would probably be a good idea to get my arm checked out. I headed to our local medical centre and within half an hour of my arrival I'd had an x-ray and the doctor confirmed there was no break, but that he could see 'something' in the x-ray at the base of my elbow that would require a specialist's opinion. He sent me home assuring me a specialist would probably see it within the hour and he would call if there was a problem.
Because I didn't hear from him that day, I assumed whatever he saw was nothing, and I thanked my lucky stars I'd escaped without serious injury. However, the next day (after waking up hurting all over ... ouch!) he called me back in to tell me I'd chipped (or cracked - I can't really remember) my elbow and needed to wear a sling for 4 to 6 weeks. (Great.)
So here I am, taking three times as long to type this one-handed - forced in to considerable downtime (something I've always wished for, but now realise is not much fun if it's not an option) and having to rely on Mr A to do a number of things that I just can't do at the moment. Simply because I ran up my driveway. I didn't base jump off a building. I didn't wipeout while on a surfboard. Nor did I parachute from an aeroplane or fall from a cliff I was abseiling at the time.
I'm a worrier. I don't take risks. I think about the consequences of my actions all the time. Perhaps that has a little bit to do with growing up being the sister of a girl who lost her life in a car accident. (My dear Mum worried/still worries about my safety constantly.)
But after my little accident, I'm questioning the concern. Mr A, for example, does a lot more stuff that I'd classify as 'risky', because he figures: you've gotta live life. (For example, it's ironic that a couple of days before my fall, he'd spent the day at superbike school racing around a racetrack on a motorbike doing over 200kms per hour - in the wet - and survived. All I'd done was run in my house.)
I'm not saying I'm about to do all, or even any of the things I've mentioned above (the only way you'd get me to jump out of a plane is if you pushed me). But it's got me thinking that although it's sensible to have concerns about safety etc, it's just as likely that fate will get you anyway, no matter how careful you think you are. May as well take a few 'risks' if there's something you really want to do.
Don't you think?