My husband and I had been out running errands. He parked in our garage, got me out of the car, and asked if I needed help getting up the two steps to the door. "No," I said, "I can get it." And I sure did: first step okay, second step okay, reach for the doorknob and whoops! All sense of balance left me in a flash, and I toppled backwards down the stairs.
I could have slid down slowly, landing on my well-padded fanny. I could have gone down slightly sideways, alighting on the ledge beside the stairs. But no, not me. I had to go down like a felled tree, slamming the back of my head into the bumper of the car.
Let's erase any suspense: I am fine. I have a monster goose egg, and my body aches as if I had been danced upon by cloggers. I never lost consciousness, and I remained lucid throughout. I did suffer a concussion, but no broken bones or long-lasting damage – although it did take a long-lasting adventure to find that out.
Because my landing was ferocious, loud, and on my head, Scott called 911. Our paramedic neighbor appeared within minutes, followed shortly by the fire department paramedic van, a community security patrol car, a private ambulance, a fire truck, another ambulance, and a police car. I was asked countless times by countless paramedics what happened, how many fingers I see, what year is it, and etc. etc. For safety's sake I was put into a neck support and strapped in and in and onto a backboard, then loaded into an ambulance for transport to the local hospital ER.
And that was the worst part. There is absolutely no cushioning on a backboard, little to no suspension on an ambulance, and terrible, terrible roads between our house and the hospital. Every bump, every rut bounced my head against the backboard – right on the spot that already hurt like hell. The aches I hadn't felt immediately after the fall were starting to appear, and were made worse by the hard backboard and confining straps.
The ambulance EMT was very kind and loosened the straps on my legs so I could get into a slightly more comfortable position – bless him. My ER nurse helped me out of my panic attack by raising the head of my gurney so that I could breathe. (Between my AL S-generated excessive phlegm and crying from the pain, both my nose and throat filled up, making it so difficult to get a breath: I tried to call for help, and neither nurse in the room would respond; the nurse who eventually did come told me I would just have to wait as I was for the doctor, and, "Ma'am, don't yell at me! You just have to wait. Yes, I do know all about ALS, but you still have to wait for the doctor.")
Well, the nice nurse helped me, the doctor did come, I was liberated from the backboard, the x-rays were taken and read, and eventually I did get to go home – to ice packs, a comfy bed, and three realizations.
One: no more trying the stairs without assistance, never, never again. Two: my balance is getting worse, and so are the falls; it's time for a wheelchair and ramps. And three: if I were 30 years younger I would have been in hog heaven being attended to by all those paramedics – there hasn't been such an abundance of hard-bodied male pulchritude in this house in I don't know how long. Very yummy, but not, I repeat not worth falling again!
