How It All Went Down

Y'all. I fell down. Hard. So hard that when they said, "Are you alright?" I replied "I think I'm going to throw up."
I had been looking at the roof deck of a potential apartment that I wasn't at all interested in, but instead of being rude, went on the roof tour anyway. It had recently rained, so after walking around on the roof, I re-entered the small elevator lobby with wet soles on my Converse sneakers. I stood on the one step, looked down, and said, "This is a tall step," reached out for the door jamb, took the step down and my foot skimmed across the slate-tiled floor. And I went down. Hard. My back slammed against the stair. I believe in boxing, this sort of hit is referred to as a "kidney punch," and it is illegal. On account of it hurts. A lot. So much that you think you're going to throw up.
I stood. I walked back outside. Tried to sit. Stood back up. Asked if there was a bathroom I could use. Asked the girl to hand me my purse because I couldn't reach down to get it off the bench. When we got down to the first floor, the bathrooms were locked and the girl just sort of apologized and stared at me, so I left. I met up with my friend, Chris, who was visiting for the weekend, and drug him into the bathroom to look at my back. He had to keep the door open, because we were at the gay bar he used to work at and there is a very strict rule about only one person at a time in the restroom. No hanky panky! Chris drew his finger along a straight red line on my lower back...presumably where I'd hit the straight edge of the step. "That's not where it hurts. it hurts lower," I said.
That night I crawled up into my bed and barely slept because every toss, every turn, every slight movement hurt. On Friday morning I looked at the gigantic bright magenta bruise on my back, took two aleves, sat in a hot shower, and went back to bed. I got back up at 9:30 and called work to say I'd be late. I took a hot bath, got dressed, and hobbled into work 3-1/2 hours late. They took one look at my back and said, "Go to the doctor? Why are you even here?" I had been too afraid not to go in...residual weirdness from old job.
I went to the cheapest walk-in clinic I could find online. (Sidebar: My insurance at my new job doesn't start for another 6 weeks. I didn't Cobra on my old insurance because "It's only three months. If I get a cold, I'll take Nyquil." Also...as an AEA member I can go to the Hirshfeld clinic for free...as long as the doctor isn't on his two-week vacation...) So, I walk in to the $98 doctor who is very insistent that I get x-rays immediately. (Russian Accent) "It is likely 0% broken but I have to be sure. If it is not broken, fine, take all of your medication. If it is broken, spinal surgery!" So, to the radioligist for $325 worth of photos of my bones. Nothing is broken, so I am just taking my (Russian Accent) medication.
I hobbled home and passed my roommate on my way to the grocery store. And by grocery store, I mean pizza place. He said, "I saw your facebook post. Sorry about you back. You shouldn't be carrying all those bags." I tell him that is also what my radiologist said, but I had to bring them home. We part ways...he to the apartment, I to the pizza place..with my bags, because far be it from him to offer help.
I spent the entire weekend on the couch (save a Sunday trip into the city because I had tickets to FOLLIES that I wasn't going to forfeit). I have an elevated bed that was difficult to climb into. I announced to roommate that I would be sleeping on the sofa, which didn't seem to deter him from his online-poker-playing post at the table two feet away from me for hours on end well into the night. He went to the post office on Saturday morning and to the grocery store on Sunday. Every other minute of those two days was spent at that table. Not a comfortable convalescence for me to say the least. So on Monday I stayed home from work, even though I most likely could have managed to sit at my desk, because I wanted to lay there feeling badly without him in the same room. I even made soup. And cried four times. Partly induced by Sondheim, partly induced by the incredible loneliness that is amplified with injury.

In other news, I think I'm going to start embroidery. Pithy pillows that say things like, "Don't sleep all day! Go out and live your life! Just make sure you have health insurance first!"

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