Today, being the biblically-submissive wife I am, I took my trusty camera outside to dutifully obey a directive from my husband.
My entire body-mass-index hammered my right knee into the ground. I plunged my left wrist into the earth. The fall forced my head to snap backward and forward in a whip-lash fashion. A dozen thoughts raced through my mind.
I just lay there in the beautiful morning sunshine chastising myself for not bringing my cane-- for not standing still when I turned on my camera-- for not insisting that my husband fill the hole in our lawn with dirt.
It was no one's fault but my own, though.
I laughed out loud at what I considered quite comical before I assessed my situation. Echoing in my mind was the little old lady in the commercial, "I've fallen and I can't get up."
I tested my wrist to see if it was broken. I moved my right leg to check its mobility. I lay there wondering how in the world I was going to get up without my cane for support. I was in the middle of the lawn. There were no grab-bars.
I checked my pocket and praised the Lord that I had my cell-phone. If nothing else, I could always call 911 if I could not wiggle my way to my feet. I cringed at the thought. But, unlike several of my friends, I didn't have a life-alert button hanging around my neck. So...
I checked my pocket and praised the Lord that I had my cell-phone. If nothing else, I could always call 911 if I could not wiggle my way to my feet. I cringed at the thought. But, unlike several of my friends, I didn't have a life-alert button hanging around my neck. So...
being the faith-based woman I am, I lifted my sore neck a tad and asked the Good Lord to give me strength and power to perform the near-impossible task before me. I rolled onto my side and began the contortions needed to erect my overweight body to an upright position. It was not pain-free. I extended my left leg and dug in with my right foot. After quite a struggle... and too much pressure on my bummed left knee, I gingerly pulled my right knee up, planted that foot on the ground and crawled to my feet.
You might ask why I ended up prostate on my lawn in the first place.It began when the Fidelity Cable man came and checked my backyard to figure out how my lines needed to be buried. The cable-line had been lying on top of my fenceline for years. It weaved in and out of the dog-ear slats on top of my fence.
Fortunately, the cable-man was really nice to me. Because I could barely stand, and due to a bummed out left knee, I found it excruciatingly painful to walk. He offered to unlock my gate himself, then return my lock to me. Afterwards, he came back, got the lock and key, re-locked my gate, then returned my key. I was so grateful.
Later in the day, two cable-digging guys showed up to bury the lines--a job forgotten for nine months. Last February, when we moved in and set up the cable for internet, technicians placed an order to bury it. Then it snowed and the ground froze. So they postponed it. After nine months daily broken service and several service calls, I wondered if it had anything to do with the exposed line. So when I called to get my internet back on line, I asked about it once again. The nice lady discovered that, somehow, the original orders to have the line buried were closed. Closed? Who closed them, I wondered. No matter... it was never done. So the nice lady rescheduled and the cable-burying guys finally came and fulfilled their obligation.
I felt good. Mission accomplished.
To my surprise, within hours, a Utility Technician parade began. I spent the rest of Monday answering my ringing doorbell as a barrage of utility service people intermittently stood on my porch and asked me to unlock my fence so they could mark more lines in my back yard.
First the cable guys came and buried the line. Then the telephone company came and sprayed red paint to mark the telephone lines. Then the electric company came and sprayed orange paint to mark the electric lines. Then the gas company came and stuck little orange flags in the ground to mark the gas lines. The only people who did not come was the water-line people.
When I told my husband, who was in Florida dropping off his mother, that I had a parade of utility companies here all day marking up our lawn, he immediately told me to take pictures in case we wanted to dig in our yard some day. That way we wouldn't have to call the utilities and have them remark the lines. I envisioned all the flowerbeds and raised vegetable beds I wanted hubby to construct. So I complied. And now you know how I ended up lying flat on my face in my back yard.
And no; I did not get up and head back into my safe haven and sit down in my recliner and feel sorry for myself.
Being the biblically-submissive wife I am, I dusted off the yellowed, dried grass from my freshly-washed black stretch-pants and retrieved my camera. Then I set about the task of walking the entire quarter-acre perimeter of my fenced yard, stopping every few feet to record the location of all the little orange flags and splotches of red and orange paint dotting our lawn.
Now I sit here before you, pecking out the story, testing my wrist to see if my typing is going to be hindered from the smashing it took. Not only does my head and wrist ache, but now, both knees are hurting. I sure will be glad when my husband gets off that plane tonight. I could use a hug.
