Gravity Is A Harsh Mistress

The congregation at Faith Presbyterian Church, like that of most mainstream Protestant churches, is getting older at an alarming rate. Over this year, a number of our congregation have found themselves laid up with various injuries, almost all of them stemming from the simple act of falling down -- broken legs, hips, arms, pelvises -- it got to the point that I suggested to our now-departed pastor that he skip his usual more spiritually-themed sermon and address common household safety, in a sermon I suggested he entitle, "Enough With The Falling Already!"

Turns out the joke was on me. About ten days ago, here in the house, I fell. Down the stairs. Bent my leg back behind me and sort of landed on my right foot and ankle. Hurt. A lot. As I laid there, assessing what parts hurt the most, I immediately thought of the joke about the Aggie who read that most accidents happen in the home . . . so he moved.

I tried to stand . . . and did! It hurt, and everything was stiff and sore, but I could put weight on it, and I figured if I let it rest and let nature do her healing magic, I would be OK. And I was, more or less. Got around with the help of a cane for about a week.

Now, a small digression to talk about health insurance. I finally became eligible for health insurance via the Federal Government around the same time I hurt myself (in fact, I sent in my enrollment papers the day before). But the applications have to wind their way through two bureaucracies (first the Feds, then the insurance company itself), and it turns out I won't be actually covered until next week (Aug. 12, to be precise). That's OK, I told myself -- I survived one week, I can certainly survive another. But since I wasn't going to get insurance help for a while, I figured I'd bite the bullet and visit one of those Urgent Care places (aka "Doc In A Box") for a quick exam and maybe some x-rays.

Turns out -- and here's where it gets funny -- I broke my leg. More specifically, the fibula, just above the little knobby thing at the bottom. I also have some displaced ankle parts, and he believes (though it will take an MRI to confirm) I also have multiple torn ligaments. He thinks I'll need surgery.

I asked the young doctor if the injuries were as severe as he detailed, how was it that I had been walking around, more or less, the past week? He said, "I don't know." So, I'm going to go with the theory that I am one macho dude who can tolerate excruciating pain by sheer force of will . . . even though the rest of my life is a stirring example of pretty much the exact opposite.

So the plan is -- get through this week. I did get one of those fancy walking boots from the clinic, which is helping me get around and reducing my stiffness and pain. Next week, my insurance will become active, and I can see a doctor. It also looks we're finally going to get furloughed at the IRS next week, too, so I will suddenly have health insurance and a ton of free time. I think I can make that work.

Speaking of the IRS, I got a promotion and a good-sized raise last week. It won't make a lot of difference this season, as it is kicking in just as we're getting furloughed, but it will be nice come next season.

So . . . be careful out there. And Enough With The Falling!