Yesterday morning I was out taking Toby on his post-breakfast walk. We had just reached the end of the yard and I was stepping onto the concrete driveway when my ankle twisted and—just like that—I was on the ground.
It's always a shock to go from casually strolling to crumpled on the pavement. I'd caught myself with the heel of my right hand, so I didn't faceplant, despite the fact that the driveway slopes downward pretty dramatically. I had to sit there a bit to do a body inventory and decide whether it was a good idea to try to get back up.
In the meantime, Toby was ambling around the yard, tethered to the leash I still had in my hand. I think he was wondering why I felt it was necessary to sit down at that juncture and how long it was going to be before he got the treat that he had earned.
The side of my right calf was a little scraped and bruised, but I concluded that I was largely uninjured. I carefully stood back up, threw Toby's poop bag into the bucket at the foot of the driveway, and went inside.
The scary thing is that it was such a routine little trip outside that I wasn't at all prepared to get help if I'd needed it. I was basically dressed in my pajamas, I had no phone with me, and my husband was already asleep with two closed doors and two loud fans between us. If I'd needed assistance, I would have had to sit or lie there and hope that one of our neighbors happened to come by and notice that I was having a problem.
As it turned out, I escaped the entire incident almost completely unharmed except for the aforementioned leg bruise (which, honestly, might have already been there) and an incredibly minor scrape on my hand. All I can say is that I'm going to try to be more careful in the future. We'll see how that goes.
Photo credit: Christian Guthier
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