Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! (ow, ow ....)

Last night I decided to finally decorate, because I thought my nephew was coming for Christmas. and Grandson kept asking where the Christmas tree was.  I go "upstairs" (aka, up the hill to our old house, which is a manufactured home sans kitchen that is now just a glorified storage unit) to search for the fake Christmas tree (no dry needles poking out of the carpet) and all the other decorations. Grandson comes with me. As I look for the decorations, he starts finding his old toys and comes across the megaphone (aka blow horn) that someone (Grams Jerry?) hid up there and begins playing with it, irritatingly LOUD.

He does get Hubby and Son's attention and they come over from Son's abode to bring a couple of boxes  of decorations "downstairs" for me, never to return for a second trip. I had driven the car up, because it was after dark and I knew there was a bunch of stuff to bring back "downstairs,". so I really wasn't all that upset that they hadn't stuck around. After they walk down the porch stairs, however, Hubby called back to me to be "very, very careful" because the porch stairs were slippery from rain and moss (aka sea weed?). He  cautions me "don't fall" when I leave and remember to use the handrail as I go down the stairs. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I assure him. "I mean it!" he hollers as he and Son depart.

About fifteen minutes later I have collected the rest of what I want and close the door of the "upstairs" unit. I take one step off the porch, with my arms full of Christmas treasures, and just as I remember what Hubby said about slippery stairs my right leg slips backwards, going underneath the step, spilling me FORWARDS onto my face, and I tumble, face first, down five stairs, landing in a heap of shattered ornaments, lights, wrapping paper and dignity!

It happened so fast, yet it also seemed like slow motion. I threw as much stuff away from me as possible because I couldn't remember what I had and I didn't want anything stabbing me. I thought, "O MY GOD, I'm going to drill my teeth into my head!" So I quickly turned my head to one side and as I hit I thought, "shit, I just broke my jaw!" Then, I saw stars and my knee felt like I had popped the cap off of it and my face felt like it was on fire. I laid there for a moment and as the ringing subsided and my hearing returned, I heard Grandson on the blowhorn shrieking, "EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! BABIKA JUST FELL DOWN THE STEPS! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! I THINK SHE'S DEAD!"

I let out a loud moan, so he would know I wasn't dead, and slowly rolled over, testing to see if anything was broken. As I am checking this out Grandson comes over, "You're not dead, 'Bika?"

"No," I croak out. Grandson looks disappointed.

"You ARE hurt though, right?" he questions.

"Yes," I whisper.

"EMERGENCY EMERGENCY 'BIKA'S ALIVE BUT SHE IS HURT! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!" shrieks the siren.

Oh, knock it off! He IS NOT a poor dear thing! He wanted to use the blow horn!  When I am finally able to discern that I have not broken any bones, nor am I leaking any fluids, nor is ANYONE listening to the "EMERGENCY WARNING SYSTEM" that keeps going off, I throw a rock at the kid and tell him to knock it off and come over and help me get up. He sighs, puts the blow horn down and comes over to me. He informs me that my mass it a bit too much for his little body to move. I look for a larger rock to throw.

After I am back on two feet Grandson helps me collect everything that has scattered, we load it into the car and drive back "downstairs" where we meet up with Hubby and Son driving in the driveway. They had gone for a quick drive to see how far down the road they could go and still see the new reflective markers Hubby had put out at the end of our driveway the night before. I groan as I get out of the car and hobble around to the other side to let Grandson out and get a few of the items collected from upstairs.

"What's your problem?" Son asks, motioning at my body's hunched appearance, and the new gimp in my step. I pull my hair back and he sees the long red welt on my face. Hubby says, "What happened to YOU? I tell him what happened and do you know what he said to me? Can you guess what this man, who SAYS he loves me, said to me, as I writhe in agony from FALLING ON MY FACE? He says to me, accusingly, mind you, as if I have committed an act of defiance, "I told you not to fall."

I'm looking for a lot bigger rock.