"So This Is How I Go Out?"

 

That was what flashed through my mind as I went ass-over-head down the stairs yesterday afternoon! Seven measly, carpeted stairs... 

My EMS training kicked in as I hit the bottom and my legs uncurled from above my head and flopped in a normal position. I stayed still as I did a quick assessment. I was conscious, breathing, and had a pulse... so far, so good. I slowly flexed my toes and fingers and worked my way up my arms and legs to check other areas along the way. Once I was somewhat assured I had not broken any limbs, I slowly rolled over and made my way to a kneeling position and checked again, paying attention to my head, vision, jaw, and hearing. 

I finally made it to my feet and picked up the box of stuff that went flying out of my hands when my foot missed the step. I cursed... then cursed some more, but all in all, everything was intact. I knew I was going to be sore and still needed to get checked out, so I went in to see my chiropractor, who ended up sending me for an x-ray just to be safe. I am waiting on those results and will discuss them tomorrow. 

Today, I spent some time wondering why the thought I had went through my mind. What came up for me was I survived so much physical abuse as a kid, and then a lot of physical trauma as an adult, that the mere thought of dying from a fall down the stairs just seemed ludicrous to me. I mean, hell, I had patients stab me and had guns go off inches from my head and I survived. 

I survived being gay-bashed and having my zygomatic (look it up) arch snapped into two pieces and come within millimeters of my brain. The same incident broke several ribs and made it hard to breathe for a long time, not to mention eating because my jaw was broken. Yet, I survived.

As I was driving around today, it occurred to me that all the scars I carry are signs of survival. I got each of them honestly, some closer to brushes with death than others, but the trauma they caused did not kill me. I can look at most of them and tell you exactly how I got hurt. 

On top of the scars, there are the crazy-ass jobs I have had like high rise window washing, where I sat on a board tied to ropes, 22 stories off the ground, or the high ropes rescue, where I did not even have the board, just a rope, and a harness. The confined space rescue, where I would have to remove my oxygen tank, squeeze through a tight space on my stomach, and try to hook it back up on the other side, hoping I did not pass out so far away from my team. 

I worked in a rough and tough biker bar where knife and gunfights were a regular thing. I have a scar on my knee where I got grazed by a flying bullet and I have scars on my head from being hit with a beer bottle as I tried to break up a fight. I have been cut, beat, and nearly drowned in my lifetime, and never remember the question of how I was going to go out cross my mind. 

In my head today, I wrote my obituary, listing all the ways in which I brushed trauma and death, to then survive. The last sentence said, "After surviving all the above, she was taken out by an ordinary set of stairs, because her foot slipped. We are sure it pissed her off in the final moments of her life!"

I am glad I did not perish yesterday. I still have quite a bit of life left, and it did make me stop and consider the enormousity of what I have already survived. The added fuckery is after letting people know what happened on social media, I am now seeing ads for medical alert devices! That alone has made me take the stairs a little slower because it will totally piss me off if I go out like that!