I am face-down on the floor, the life force ebbing from my body. Must. Dial. Phone.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
I croak but can’t speak.
“Ma’am? What is the nature of your emergency?”
Can’t. Catch. Breath.
“Ma’am, are you choking?”
“No,” I manage.
“Are you bleeding? Is there an intruder in the house? Are you on fire? Is there a Doberman hanging from your jugular?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Ma’am, I would like to help you. Please tell me the nature of your emergency.”
It takes every ounce of life left in me to blurt:
While picking up over the weekend, I got down on all fours to swipe under the couch.
I fell onto a Lego. An itty-bitty Lego.
Right in the “funny-bone” part of my knee. If I hadn’t already been on my knees, it would have brought me to them. The pain was sharp and excruciating, and the shock to my nervous system on that reflex-point made the room go white.
I slumped down to the floor, almost passed out. Roger was out on a bike ride, and I felt badly that he’d come home to find his beloved wife dead by Lego. That the kids, fighting with each other obliviously elsewhere in the house, would feel guilty about their role in my accident, and that Lego creatures would forever haunt their dreams.
But apparently it was not my time, and within about 5 minutes, I caught my breath and was able to re-join the ranks of the living. No one even knew how close I came to the. end. And there’s not even a bruise to prove my near transition from the quick to the dead.
Let this be a lesson for your knees.
(Tip of the hat to my sister, Tami.)