I Fell

The new small scar on my upper lip has joined an earlier scar, nearly faded away, that I got sometime between 1938 and ‘39 when I fell out of my baby buggy and landed on the concrete sidewalk near our apartment on W. Division St., Chicago.

My new scar nestles near the almost-gone momento of a childhood trauma. It’s as if the newcommer, in a moment of compassion, decided the young ‘un needed a pal.

This time, at 87, many, many years past my first “over you go”, I wasn’t paying attention when my dog Doris (innocent) refused to relinguish the scent that was drawing her to the parking lot’s fence.

I pulled. She stayed. I toppled. Backwards. Through the grace of God, and my many loved ones who are now Their (nonbinary) neighbor, I did not hit my head. But I’ll admit my first thought was, “So this is it. This is the one that will land me in the hospital.”

After scanning the landscape to see if an early morning walker would help me rise, and coming up empty, I slowly lifted myself from the sidewalk. I slipped a tissue, wisely storied in my jacket pocket, and wound it around my left hand’s bleeding thumb.

Thus attended to, we: thumb, lip, and mild scrapes of knees, and dear Doris, walked carefully to the very nearby lobby of our highrise.

“My small bag with bandages and ointment are in my backpack,” I told Lavette at the desk. “Can you grab it for me.”

But before she could sign on for nurse duty, a good-looking gentleman, slighty older than the young’ uns who rented here, but still nowhere near my dottage, paused his return to his own apartment.

“Let me look at it,” he said. He did not recoil in horror, or in any other way one can recoil, but said, “I have bandages and antiseptics in my apartment. Would you and Doris (our dogs are pals) be okay with coming up and letting me treat it? I was an Army medic.”

Now you of little faith may have thought: “Isn’t that nice? Elaine is so lucky.”

Luck did not play a role in my scenario. I mean, “Army medic!” Divine intervention! .

Let’s call him Ben David. Not his real name lest you wrest him from my building to become your own savior.

My kleenex was still wrapped around my thumb, and Doris appeared worried that she would would suffer blame for my klutzy (her words, not mine) fall, accompanied us.

Being the small, but officious person I am, I settled on a leather couch, removed my Uniquo puffy jacket, and stretched out my kleenex-wrapped thumb for surgery. Doris sat at my side, daring Ben David’s dogs to approach.

Ben David brought out and arranged on the counter — now serving as instrument tray — the bandages, ointments, wipes, and other essentials for my faux surgery.

Doris sat quietly, except at times to warn the legitimate dogs of the home to stay away. My former shelter pet was in a position of importance. Glued to my side as if to mask her part in my tumble.

As we chatted, Ben David tenderly cleaned the thumb’s wound. Placed a fresh adhesive strip to the gash while continuing in a conversation designed to distract.

Doris and I were in love. Not the soap opera type, but the ardor one bestows on a lifesaver. I was being healed without waiting in a chair in our nearest Immediate Care. I was distracted from my injuries through my usual method of interviewing people new to my life.

Thus under repair, stimulated by a proffered cup of black coffee, and soothed by the nonmedical locale, Doris and I settled in. (You are aware that it is never a good idea to rush out after surgery.)

For more fortune to befall us, on an incident that could’ve turned ugly rather than heartwarming, Ben David’s spouse returned from a task and joined us for our now-relaxed conversation. Let’s call her, Clara.

Although disinf ected and patched up, Doris and I lingered. Eventually we left and allowed Ben David and Clara to discuss the strange, old lady who had entered their home, flooded them with personal stories, and finally took the elevator up to her own place.

If you have reached this far, you will be relieved to know that dear Doris, although I blame inattentiveness to my crash, rather than my sweet former shelter dog, and via the advice of her one-time-a-day dog walker, purchased a “Vet and Trainer Recommended No-Pull Harness.” It only took me an hour, with the instructions splayed before me, to figure out how to put it on.

Fortunately Doris is okay with this change of wardrobe. Thus hitched up, our odds have improved of bringing both of us back from a walk in the same condition as we started. Pray for us.