Been There, Done That: A series of unfortunate events

Dave and I have had a camper at a local campground for the past 21 years. Considering we’ve been hanging out in the woods with lots of nature all around us all that time, I’ve managed to survive with very few horror stories, even though I’m a natural born klutz. As a child, I tripped over every tree root and sidewalk crack I came in contact with. As I got older, I got more creative with my trips and falls and tragedies.

At the camper, I can only remember a handful of injurious episodes.

When we had gotten our first camper, we didn’t really have steps or a porch yet. We fashioned some steps for the front door out of cinder blocks and I had been in and out of the front door a million times taking things in. Forgetting the fact that we were parked on a hill and that the step out the back door was about four feet different than the front door, I fell on my entire front side.

One time, I tripped on a tree root (shocker) and fell like a sack of potatoes, hitting my face on the ground and getting a bloody nose. As I was telling the story the next day, I said, “I can’t tell you the last time I had a bloody nose,” to which my friend answered “I can, it was yesterday and you face-planted right over there.” Thanks, pal.

There was the golf cart walk-off. I got offered a ride on a jacked up golf cart. It took lots of helping hands to get me up in the seat and yet when the ride was through, I put my foot off the side like the ground was right there and fell on my face — of course.
I wiped out in the mud once wearing Crocs with questionable tread. Smacked my face one more time. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. I kind of am, but it still caught me off guard a couple of weeks ago when I put my face in danger yet again.

Everyone else Dave and I hang out with at the campground were at another site on the hill, partying and having a good time — Dave included. I was putting away supper stuff. Back and forth into the camper and out to the fridge on the porch. I made it about three times before my Croc caught the step going into the camper and down I went — in slow motion.

Shin first, catching the metal threshold, right hand outstretched to try to break my fall (didn’t), left cheek clipping the cupboard door before forehead hitting the floor.
The first thing I did was run my tongue across my front teeth. Still there — awesome. The little thing that hooks your lip to your gum was gone, but I can live without that, I guess.
I tried to move, but couldn’t really. I managed to roll onto my back and our Beagle Boy Cletus started licking my face. I needed help. Hollering wouldn’t do me any good, no one would hear me. I managed to reach up to the countertop and grabbed my phone. The fingers on both my hands were already bruised and swollen.

I was able to text “I need help” to Debbie. I figured she was the only one who might have her phone. Literally a few seconds later, she was standing over me, “Oh my God, are you OK?” and reached for my hands to help me up.

“No, I’m not OK and please don’t, my hands are in bad shape,” I said. I was shocked at how fast she got to me after the text.

She said she didn’t even know where her phone was, she just got a feeling she should check on me right then. Wow, like the Cosmos sent out my plea for help to her. If I had texted Dave, would he have come instead? That’s something to ponder.

Debbie helped me up and I thanked my lucky stars:

1) The Fates had brought her to me in record time
2) I still had my front teeth
3) I didn’t land on Cletus and squash him like a bug
4) I didn’t do all of that theatrics in front of God and everybody, I was on my own porch
5) Nothing felt broken, so I didn’t waste a bunch of money and time on a trip to the ER
I just wish I had a better story to tell, like I was in a bar room brawl (you should see the other guy).