“Don’t worry about getting older. You’re still going to do dumb stuff. It’s just going to hurt a little more.”
— Catchy saying that used to be funny.
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Even at this age, two of my dumb stuff records are still intact. Neither is worthy of notoriety. But one of them, I seem destined to challenge every so often.
Last week’s attempt resulted in another unscheduled visit for medical attention, replete with all the stereotypical “yes or no” questions.
Are you allergic to anything?
“Falling on concrete,” I groaned with a grin and a grimace.
Recent surgeries?
“No.”
Recent illnesses?
“No.”
Ever broken any bones?”
“No,” I offered. “And that’s a record I hope is not broken today.”
I thought it was funny. Apparently, however, not everyone appreciates my humor.
Accidents in the last five years?
“You mean prior to the one this morning?”
Have you fallen lately?
“Well, since you brought it up, let’s talk more about this morning.”
Falling was not on my list of things to do that morning. Beautiful day. Sun shining. Summer in full, hotter than a road lizard, oh my gosh, broiler mode. I had acres of perfectly level, unobstructed concrete parking lot on which to walk back to my car. Notebook under my arm, cup of coffee in one hand with the other in my pocket reaching for car keys.
That’s when it happened. For still unknown reasons, putting weight on my right leg caused it to respond with, “I don’t think so, not right this minute.” Natural reflexes called on my left leg as a backup. “Hey man,” that leg shouted. “I’m not done with my job over here yet.” Conflicting signals collided, and gravity sent me rolling on the concrete.
Fortunately, my guardian angel working the day shift was Johnny. Johnny on the spot. I’ve been through several guardian angels in my time. Some, I’ve scared the daylights out of. Others, I’ve worn out or simply caused them to throw up their hands and resign.
Last week’s was right there. Despite torn slacks, scraped elbow and knee, and coffee splashed everywhere, I felt decent when I stood up. “Dodged another bullet,” I thought.
That was before I tried to walk.
I am no stranger to accidents or emergency rooms. Over the years, things like car wrecks, ladders, lawnmowers, and temporary losses of good judgment preceded by statements like, “Stand back and watch me, I can do this,” also include a motorcycle wreck. The night a team of angels was riding with me.
The late-night trip from where I worked at the newspaper in Naples to home in Mount Pleasant ended when the bike’s rear tire surrendered its air at about 70 miles per hour. Catapulted me over the handlebars, and I took the windshield with me. Meeting the pavement head-on, literally. I still remember thinking, “This is gonna leave a mark.”
After body-surfing the pavement and narrowly missing the tumbling motorcycle, I stood up slowly and looked around. In the middle of a dark four-lane highway where I could see no car lights in either direction, I realized the extent of good fortune that was allowing me to do so.
A quick inventory revealed that I had not simply survived but did so miraculously without gaping holes or missing limbs. Removing my helmet was most sobering. Much of the outer shell on the right side was missing. Ground completely through to the padded lining. Angels at work again.
Angels were still on duty when I walked toward a light at the top of the hill, where I found a friend who provided comfort and a trip to the emergency room. A call was made to family physician Dr. Lee McKellar, who arrived minutes later. A “patient-first” care procedure sadly not often seen anymore in today’s healthcare world.
“What happened,” doc asked while checking me over.
“I had a motorcycle wreck … near your house on 67.”
“Why didn’t you come on up to the house,” he asked?
“Guess a late-night visit just didn’t cross my mind,” I laughed.
Determining that nothing was broken and a shoulder separation was the worst of my injuries, he “harnessed” me back together with plans for a morning visit with an orthopedic surgeon in Paris. A healthcare provider who just may have missed his calling as a comedian.
The funny physician concluded a six-week plan for repair and healing with a light-hearted proclamation. “You’ll be good as new; with one exception. The collar bone typically doesn’t go all the way back down. So, you may heal with a slight bump on your shoulder … which shouldn’t be a problem unless you plan on wearing strapless evening gowns.”
The verdict last week was, once again, nothing broken or fractured. I reached up and felt the collarbone bump that’s been there for decades as I waited for providers and insurance companies to haggle over making sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed before providing treatment. A patient care procedure sadly seen far too much in today’s healthcare world.
This time, the damage was limited to ugly bruises, concrete rash, and hyper-extended muscles and tendons in my right leg that scream in agony whenever I sit. Walk. Bend. Lie down. Breath. Or think about it.
But thank the Lord, as I’m recovering from this latest episode, two of my dumb stunt records remain intact.
I’ve never broken a bone. And I’ve never worn a strapless evening gown.
—Leon Aldridge
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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, and The Monitor in Naples.
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