There was badness. A full-blown oh.but.no moment was achieved.
Yesterday, was my I.V. medication infusion. During the infusion there are copious quantities of Benadryl, Tylenol, and Phenergan administered to minimize the side effects. Despite having built something of a tolerance up to the med cocktail, there's still a loss of, ah, mental acuity. The fog is made more interesting by the sometimes still-gimpy post-operative gait employed in teetering about the house. This is a recipe for trouble, so there's usually encouragement to remain seated during the treatments.
The meds and the gait came together with an infusion being given on trash day this time. (Perhaps Gentle Reader is unaware of a deep, personal desire to put out as much recycling and garbage as can possibly be scrounged each week.) Sitting at the kitchen table cutting out strips of paper for our chain reflecting all that we have to be thankful for, I heard the sound of the trash and recycling trucks approaching. At the same time, the big bag of non-biologic medical waste came into focus spurring a race to grab the bag and beat the truck to the bins out front.
I made it to the door in near record time. Fumbling with the handle, my mister called out that it was already too late. Undeterred, I ambled out onto the brick porch thinking I could stuff the bag in the neighbor's bin if the trash man saw me waving the bag in an attempt to flag him down. Usually, the step off the porch onto the uneven, steeply sloped expanse of the front lawn requires caution. Except the medication cocktail, rush, and desire to reach the trash truck resulted in flight after the initial step down. One foot on the grass, and suddenly there was nothing but air until the concrete sidewalk came up to halt the body in motion.
After being told to avoid impact activities, it seemed like landing directly on my knees was probably a bad thing. The next thought was, "Holy-night-oh-my-word-that-freaking-hurts-are-the-neighbors-watching-I-can't-get-up-there-goes-the-trash-truck..." Stuck on all fours with both hands scraped (but rather glad they hit the cement just ahead of my unscathed face) it registered that the front door was closed--- with my mister and the nurse both inside still thinking I was loping along trying to discard my bag of trash. I called out for the mister, but it seemed like a feeble attempt considering the roaring of the trash truck heading off down the street. Another try brought the mister to the door, and he covered the distance from the porch as quickly as I had, but with retention of his dignity.
Both knees were already swelling. In the fall, a tear rent the knees of my still newish jeans and bloodied the skin underneath. A call was made to the orthopedic surgeon to let him know that all due care and caution had not been taken of his handiwork. Once the infusion finished, and all the owies had been cleaned and dressed, it was with a certain relief that I crawled into bed to sleep off the last vestiges of the meds and rest my somewhat battered body. Fortunately, this morning I seem to be not much worse for the wear; though, there is a heightened caution in approaching the step off the porch. Because that first step is a doozy.