Last year I was running around the neighborhood, on the sidewalk, and, right in front of a family sitting on their porch, ate it. I stumbled on the driveway's incline (you know how the sidewalks dips down and then back up as you go across the driveway?) I didn't pick my feet up, I guess. And NO ONE asked me if I was ok. Mike thinks they were just trying to be nice and not point it out to me that they all saw...but I thought it was mean.
But, you know, falling on the sidewalk wasn't all bad. I mean, there wasn't even blood.
Now, asphalt, that HURTS.
If you are squeamish, stop reading. And don't look at the pictures. Otherwise, enjoy the story of my misery.
Friday night I came home and didn't want to run, but we were going to go out to eat, so how could I enjoy my meal if I didn't earn it? So I was going to just go 1 1/2 mile, around the block, and hurry home. But, around the block means running through a construction area. It's after they've all gone home, and it's flat, so it's safe. Right?
I had just gotten off the sidewalk to go around the corner into the orange barrel zone when all of a sudden the ground is coming toward me. My feet had gotten wrapped around something in the road and all I had were my two hands to save my face (from a second skinning of my lifetime). I kept falling, braced with my palms and rolled to my shoulder. I immediately looked around for the evil piece of metal that tripped me and when I knew it could do me no more harm, I looked to the truck driver of the guy who slowed down to samaritously ask if I was ok.
"Thank you for asking, I think I can make it."
Rather than stop and wail on the side of the road, waiting for my mother to come tell me it would be ok, I had to trek home (maybe only 5 minutes' walk) to Mike. The whole way home I was angry and cursing Utah for it's construction. I was also trying to slow my heartbeat so I wouldn't bleed to death through my hands. (I HATE bleeding).
As soon as I got home and asked Mike for his help, I broke. I couldn't stop the tears and almost-hyperventilating (sorry Dad...I tried). It didn't hurt, yet, but just knowing someone else could, and would, take care of me allowed me to not have one ounce of "being strong."
Mike was an angel and cleaned me up as best he could between my wincing and crying. He asked what happened and listened to me choke out the story. He was great. Until...
The rubbing alcohol. He was actually really gentle with that too, but he couldn't stop the pain. I don't think I've ever had rubbing alcohol on a wound before. If I have, I just don't remember. But when that stuff touched my nerves (for the skin was gone), I thought my hand was actually put in acid and was being slowly burned off.
When it was all over, Mike came over and hugged me and told me how brave I was. He's going to be a good dad.
Anywho, here's some pics!
This is of my shoulder, the day of.
Two day's worth of healing:
This is my right hand, the one that's not the worst. (I don't have the worst of it up here because it really is that bad and I don't want to gross anyone out! But I got 1.5 x 1.5 in' of the skin rubbed off on the palm of my left hand)
And this is two day's worth of healing:
I think I'm healing pretty good and have gotten all the sand/rocks out. My left hand now looks like it is growing skin back (I don't know how to explain it without being grossly descriptive). The good thing is that I didn't break anything. The bad is that I just can't use my left hand. I can move my fingers without putting any weight on them, and squeeze them together. But anything that requires any muscle from my palm hurts like mad. You know, like holding the steering wheel, or taking a picture. I can't pick up the laptop... It's weird.
And now you all think I'm a whimp and a klutz. And you are right.
