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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/977241-Paint-the-White-Roses-Red
Rated: E · Book · Comedy · #2214457
Here I go down a rabbit hole. What will I encounter? What will I write? Viva l'imagination
#977241 added March 16, 2020 at 5:04pm
Restrictions: None
Paint the White Roses Red
         PROMPT: Mistakes happen, some beyond our control. Create a blog or story telling of such a time and what you did to rectify the situation.
         
         
         
         
         
         Mistakes and I are intimate. I'm certain they find me entertaining and they never want for laughs at my expense.
          The particular mistakes in judgment that I shall share here occurred because I am fiercely stubborn, or more accurately, I am independent. In cahoots with lack of self-awareness re my physical limitations, my single-mindedness has resulted in some memorable "situations". I have, however, survived to ultimately make fresh mistakes.
         Picture if you will my seventeen-year old self awakening in a hospitable bed, alone and a wee bit disoriented after what would be my first knee surgery. A primal urge suggested I find a bathroom. My instinct directed me to vacate my bed and stand up pursuant to hurrying my annoyed bladder to a place of relief. There seemed to be a physical barrier.
         At first, I thought I'd been deposited in a crib of some sort, and my teenage pride took offence. Bars hemmed me in and I struggled to release or lower them. This particular model did not have electrical buttons to push. I somehow knew that the latch rested out of my reach. Not to be defeated and really needing to empty a certain ornery organ, I improvised my escape. I never once considered using the call button and seeking assistance, no, not me.
         Without at least some strategic planning, I hoisted my newly casted right leg up and over a bar. This was my first error. I failed to calculate that this leg could not and would not bend. I also did not foresee that this leg refused to be weight bearing. All that became secondary problems because that stiff, unusually heavy limb acted as an anchor and pulled my entire unprepared body out of that bed. Yep, I crashed to the floor, a floor as soft as concrete.
         Of course, I then had to somehow return to an upright posture. I struggled, but I did manage to stand. I then discovered I could not walk, so I invented a sliding, twisting step for my 'good' leg while holding my other foot slightly off the cold floor. I must say the curtains hung from the ceiling were strong. I faced an incredulous nurse when I exited the facilities. Apparently, I was supposed to call her and ask for a bed pan.
         Fast forward to several years in the future where I found myself in a similar predicament. Once again, I'd subjected my body to a surgery, and once again my demanding bladder ordered me to obey. In this instance, I'd had an abdominal hysterectomy and walking hurt. Until then, I'd never considered how important the abdominal muscles were to basic ambulation. I had ensconced myself on a loveseat before this call of nature and I learned I could not simply stand. Instead of requesting aid, I rolled off the furniture and onto my hands and knees. This move did not benefit me at all and instead created a new predicament. My daughters found me there. Compounding my dilemma was the almost hysterical laughter from the three of us. One bright thing emerged. My bladder had super control.
         Into the stretch of numerous years, my beleaguered knees had reached their breaking point. I found myself on a waiting list for a knee replacement and while I awaited this surgery, I coped as best I could. My left knee manifested as extremely unstable and of necessity I depended upon the right knee. One Spring night, I gingerly hobbled down the nineteen steps of my home and I eased out to the curb with a garbage pail. As I turned to retrace my steps, my right knee rebelled. I did not fall to the ground, but I felt something tear and let go in that joint. There I stood unable to move. The pain proved to be excruciating and my right knee refused to weight bear. Oh, I attempted a few halting steps. I had a dilemma. Basically, I was trapped outside my home without my cell phone. I was home alone. I could not crawl on my shoddy knees. I could not hop.
         A young neighbour came to my rescue. She'd been watching me from her apartment across the road and she wondered why I lingered at the roadside. Curiosity got the better of her. She assured me she was strong as she urged me to use her as a cane. It seemed to take forever, but she helped me to my nineteen stairs.
         This is where I should've sent her upstairs to retrieve my phone, but, no, I did not do the sensible thing. I bumped up those steps on my butt joking that someone had to polish them. Perched on a chair, I phoned my son and asked for a ride to the emergency room. Had I stopped to think, I could've been downstairs waiting for him in the first place. I then cursed my short-sightedness when I bumped back down the stairs.
         I suppose I could brag that I own my mistakes, but who am I kidding? Those lapses in judgment have my number.
(849 words)

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/977241-Paint-the-White-Roses-Red