Of course, I'd forgotten my cell phone, so I worked my way down the hill, thinking once I was on flatter ground, I'd be able to stand. Alas, no. I had to call for help. Each time I called, the dog, who's leash I'd dropped in the fall, gave moral support by running back and licking my face before running off to sniff another bush. Where' s Lassie when you need her? Finally, a neighbor heard me over the wind and fetched my husband. Together, they got me to a car so I could go to the emergency room.
Turns out, I broke both bones in my lower leg and tore a ligament. After surgery, I woke up with this on my wrist.
If only someone had put it on me before I took that walk.
But it could be a lot worse. It's been fifty years since I last broke a bone, so one every half century isn't so bad. I had a good surgeon. I have a great excuse to avoid cooking and cleaning over the next few weeks. In the meantime, I'm writing. The words aren't exactly pouring out of me yet, but hopefully as I settle into a routine, they will. At least that's the plan. We'll see.