Pat Fell Down and Broke Her Crown

I get so tired of the endless catalogue of aches and pains, illness and death, interspersed between cat and dog pictures we are subjected to on Facebook, that I am hesitant to mention any of my own ills online, but if I don’t season my story with setbacks, the tale of my cross-country journey would be merely a travelogue.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned much besides legs covered with mosquito bites, bad allergies, and maybe a cold, but there have been other problems, most notably, a stiff hip. I wrenched it in ballet class about two months before I left (ironically, I was so concerned with not turning out at the knee because I didn’t want knee problems, that it never occurred to me the hip could be affected.) The problem was exacerbated by the extra driving I’d been doing (as you will recall, I didn’t have my car for at least six months before that, so I wasn’t used to driving). It wasn’t until I discovered the exercises to stretch the piriformis muscle that I started to heal, though long bouts of sitting or walking continue to cause problems. Still, I don’t let that slow me down. (Weather and being with people has done more to keep me from walking than my hip has done.)

There is something almost romantic (emphasis on almost) about a dance-related injury, even if one is more of a dilettante than a real dancer. But falling down stairs? . . . Oops, I am getting ahead of myself.

I am back at the Blue Belle Inn in St. Ansgar. Sherrie Hansen, the owner, is on a much needed vacation to Scotland (though it’s not all vacation because she is probably gathering background information for another of her Wildflowers of Scotland Romance Series) and I am running the B&B in her absence. On my very first day of being in charge, I helped the staff straighten a quilt hung at a stair landing. Foolishly, I stood on a small bench, and when I stepped off, I misjudged the distance to the floor, lost my balance, and fell down the stairs backward.

I hit the crown of my head on the edge of a windowsill and . . . if you don’t want the gory details, you can leave. I don’t mind, but I promise, I won’t show you a picture of the wound, though I have one. The doctor took the picture with my phone to show me what my head looked like.

I hit my head so hard, I thought I’d cracked it, and when I put my hand on the crown of my head, I could feel bone through the hole in my scalp. Oh, my. And blood? It’s true, scalp wounds bleed. A lot!

20160522_141851As it turns out, I only ripped open a few inches of scalp, which were stapled together at the emergency room. (If ever I get sick and need a lot of medical attention, I’m moving to Osage, Iowa. The ER medical folk — all women! — were kind, efficient, and thorough. Better yet, they all spoke English without an accent. My dad’s doctors had such thick Hindu accents that I could barely understand a word they said.)

The CAT scan showed no breakage or bleeding. The blood tests showed no organic problems. (They took all those tests to find out if there was a reason I fell. I guess they didn’t believe it was simply a momentary lack of attention.)

The fall terrified me, and the adrenaline coursing through my body kept me shaking long after I was repaired. I’m still stunned by the whole thing. Still uneasy about climbing stairs or doing anything that might cause me to lose my balance. Beyond that, I find it amazing to think we can be put together again. Supposedly, the only problem I will be left with is that the hair at my crown will grow in funny, but I’m at that age where hair grows funny anyway.

I keep thinking about this — how fragile we really are. I have been very careful on this trip because a person is always more vulnerable when she is not snug in her own little nest. And then, just like that . . . bam!

Oddly, despite the trauma of the moment, nothing really happened. I fell, I was given a tetanus shot and stapled back together, and that was it. No pain pills. Not much of a headache. No downtime. (But oh, such pretty bruises are blooming all over my body!) The real trauma will be when the bills start coming, but I don’t want to think about that. I just want to savor being alive.

I felt sort of wimpy at times on this trip. I’d envisioned myself facing up to life and whatever it threw at me, seeing what I was made of, but I’ve encountered nothing of a serious nature until now. So what am I made of? Not much. I kind of gasped as I fell, but then I laughed in disbelief at the situation even before I found out I hadn’t cracked my skull. The whole thing was so ridiculous. The fear and uneasiness came more from my body’s reaction to the fall. I just chalked it up to more firsts: First staples, first CAT scan, first check-up in over 40 years.

I try not to think of the potential damage such a heavy fall could have caused — I can’t let thoughts of what might have been or what might be in the future affect me. I know how easy it is simply to stay at home to protect oneself when alone, and yet, that is the quickest way I know to stagnate. A long slow lonely decline into a long slow lonely death. Not for me, thank you.

What’s the answer? I don’t know. I don’t even know what the question is. All I know is that I will be here at the Blue Belle Inn for a couple of weeks, which will give my scalp time to heal and the staples taken out before I set off down the road again.

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(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

No Blues at the Blue Belle Inn

I went from one mostly consonant-free state to another. Ohio. Iowa. A measly two consonants between them. No wonder I got them mixed up when I was very young!

Jeff and I had been to Iowa once a long time ago. We often reminisced about a motel near Ames, the quiet location, the pond our windows overlooked (though it could have been a rain puddle considering all the rain we’d driven through). We always wanted to go back through the state, and now we never will go together. But I went back by myself and this time, I didn’t stay at a motel. I stayed at a bed and breakfast, one I’d known about for many years: The Blue Belle Inn in St. Ansgar, owned by fellow writer Sherrie Hansen, author of the wildflowers of Scotland romances. (One is named Blue Belle. Hmmm. I wonder where she got that title!)

When Sherrie bought the house twenty-five years ago, it was in terrible condition, but she restored the building, upgraded it, and decorated each of the bedrooms to reflect a story. I stayed in Plum Creek, named after a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.

Talk about being steeped in luxury! Lovely and very comfortable room room. Gourmet breakfast — egg and ham strata, cranberry scone, fresh fruit cup. Delicious lunch — chicken salad on a croissant with a salad. Fabulous dinner — cottage pie with a thatched roof (her version of shepherd’s pie) and coconut cake for desert.

As you probably figured out, although the inn is a bed and breakfast, Sherrie provides other meals for guests who stay more than a night or two.

I also had the luxury of meeting Sherrie, a long-time internet friend. We met at Gather.com, a now defunct social network site for writers and photographers. Sherrie moderated one of my favorite groups — a photography group for all things color. She would choose a color, and group members submitted photos of something depicting that color. Such fun!

Sherrie is as wise and as intelligent as she appears online, making my stay at the Blue Belle Inn a real joy.

And so another online friend has become a friend for real.

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(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

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