Flattened and Impaled

Certainly the title of this post sounds dire, no? Well, it's a brief health report. . .of sorts.

One of the joys of womanhood is the periodic demand to get flattened. By that I mean the annual (or biennial, depending upon whose advice you are heeding) mammogram. I am somewhat remiss--sometimes I let more than two years go by. I am not unmindful of the benefits of screening tests, but I follow medical studies, and the evidence is still coming in as to whether or not screening mammograms do more than BSE (breast self-exam) in discovering early cancers.

However, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and my husband kept reminding me to schedule my mammogram. So, I did--finally. And earlier this week, I trundled off to be flattened. I am always completely relaxed for my mammograms, even though I am not wild about the whole process. I amiably chatted with the radiology tech as she turned me this way and that. I noticed two ammonia ampules taped to the side of the mammogram machine. I asked--do people sometimes faint? Oh yes, she replied, we have a fair number of women who collapse as soon as the machine releases. I tried to envision that--being flattened, then released, then fainting dead (only temporarily) away.

The report--all is well; free from flattening for another year (or two).

The impaling part of this report, thankfully, had NOTHING to do with the mammogram. My husband and I were working around our house the other day, gathering up various yard items and storing them for the winter. We also refurbished and refilled the bird feeders. On a whim, I decided to reposition an iron tripod plant holder. It was wobbly, so I thought--why not move it.

When I got it in its new location, I decided to step on the lower brace to push the tripod stakes into the ground. I was wearing my wonderful Privo sandals, and gave no thought to the suitability for use as a sledge hammer.

The next thing I knew, a part of the iron ornamental stand poked through the bottom of my sandal, completing impaling my shoes but--thankfully, going right between my big toe and the next toe. It did whack the side of the nail on my big toe, knocking it lose like a child's tooth.

I could not pull my sandal up, being entirely captive to the iron spoke sticking through my shoe sole. For a second or two, I tottered trying to balance and then fell backwards, landing FLAT on my back. And I mean flat. Flatter than a mammogram, I might say.

It reminded me very much of the time our son took judo lessons. He was in his early teens and thought judo would be a fun thing to do. He spent hours in our back yard practicing falling. He would fall straight back, landing on his back. He flung his arms out to the side to dissipate the energy along his arms, and protect himself from being hurt. It worked.

I wasn't feeling very judo-like, but I really didn't hurt anything other than my pride and dignity. I must have looked ridiculous. My husband was momentarily horrified. Right before I fell, I had hollered that I couldn't move my foot--he thought that meant the iron spoke has gone through my foot! No, no--I reassured him--just my shoe.

Well, the end of the story is that I was sternly admonished to stand there, while my husband went and got a real hammer, and a board, which he used to hammer the stand into place.