Somebody said, "We make plans and God laughs." (I don't know who that "somebody" is or was. The interwebs says John Lennon, a Yiddish proverb, the tv drama Private Practice, or Woody Allen. Take your pick.) I don't think God really laughs at us, especially not at our misfortunes, but I do think that every once in awhile something happens to make us remember that we're not as much in charge as we think we are.
I started out this morning full of plans: help my son move some furniture, get the second coat of paint on the back wall of the house, get under the side porch for a better look at what's needed to fix it, run some errands...but it was storming when I woke up so I decided to take a little nap and re-adjust my plans later.
About noon Mare knocked on the door, and I went to answer it in my favorite Hello Kitty jammies. He apologized for not showing up to hang the clapboards (whatever, Mare) and we chatted for about half an hour. Suddenly I felt yucky, really yucky, so I walked into the kitchen to sit down. I made it to the kitchen doorway before I, in Mare's words, "dropped like a sack of taters". Passed out cold. On the way down I somehow managed to hit the door jamb at an odd angle, which broke my collarbone, and then I face-planted into the corner cabinet and opened up a small cut on my forehead. That'll teach Mare to no-show when he's promised to help me! He drove me to the hospital and spent the next three hours in the ER waiting room while they ran me through x-rays, a CT scan, bloodwork, and an EKG. All in all, it's good news: everything came back normal and the break is clean so the bone guy doesn't think I'll need surgery. My glasses are shattered and my Hello Kitty jammies look like something out of a horror movie. Come to think of it, I look like something out of a horror movie.
I'm lucky. Lucky that I wasn't alone, lucky that I wasn't hurt worse, lucky that I have health insurance to help pay for all this, and especially lucky that I have friends and family who care about me. I'll try to remember all that in the face of the ortho doctor's warning: "No construction for you for the next six to eight weeks." Ugh.