I immediately paused the YouTube makeup tutorial I was watching on our ipad mini, straining to hear the woman again. Was it coming from one of the apartments on the other side of the tree line? (We've called the cops before for a domestic violence incident happening at the apartments.) Or was someone on the street in need of help?
I heard the woman scream again. Not so much of a scream really. More like hysterical shouting and crying at the same time. "Leave me alone. I hate you," were just some of the things she was shouting.
From our bedroom window, I saw the dark silhouette of the woman's body riding a bike along the sidewalk, the white reflector lights on the spokes of her front and back wheels flashing.I couldn't tell if someone was following her or if she was on her cell phone, crying and shouting at whomever was on the other end of the phone. A boyfriend, perhaps?
Immediately, I thought I should call the police, but quickly pushed that thought aside. Since she was riding a bike, she might make it home or turn off on a side street before the cop arrived to determine what's going on. Maybe she was shouting at someone on her cellphone. I wanted to determine if someone was stalking her before I dialed 911.
I rushed down the stairs, my rapid fire thoughts pinging around my head: I need to get to the deck to observe the situation, get the key from it's hidden spot to unlock the French doors, summon Joseph, who was watching a movie with the boys in the basement TV room, and maybe call the cops to assist this woman.
The next thing I knew, I felt myself falling forward, landing all my weight on my left leg.
I hear a popping sound before I collapse to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Immediately, I feel a warm flush under the skin of my ankle, like a gelatinous ooze, spreading to my toes and up to my mid-calf.
I can't move my ankle.
I'm in a lot of pain. Sharp, constant, lightning bolts of pain around my ankle and up the back of my calf muscle.
Joseph rushes up the basement stairs. "What did you do?"
"I think I broke my leg." I'm crying, sitting on my ass on the floor, grasping my limp ankle because holding it makes it feel better than just letting it dangle there.
The boys are close on Joseph's tail, their little faces scrunched with concern and worry and fright.
Joseph kneels down next to me. Through tears, I insist I broke my leg and we need to go to the hospital. Now. He climbs over me, charging up the stairs to get his wallet, cursing all the while. He can't find his wallet where he usually keeps it, which is on top of his dresser. More cursing.
The boys are crying.
Joseph rushes down the stairs on a quest to find his wallet so he can drive me to the hospital, which is a couple of miles away. This should be simple. He looks on the dining room table. Still can't find it.
I remind him he went to yoga earlier that day, asking him to retrace his steps. Did he leave it in his car? On the top shelf of the cookbook cabinet at the bottom of the stairs?
I silently resent him that I need to help him think this through despite rocking back and forth on the floor in massive pain. Why do I need to do the thinking for both of us sometimes?
Joseph finds his wallet on the cookbook cabinet and instructs the boys to head for the car. I want him to call one of the neighbors to come over and be with the boys instead of taking them to the emergency room.
He reasons that since it's eleven thirty at night, he doesn't want to wake anyone or disturb anyone. I think it's because he doesn't want to ask for help. But I don't say any of this.
Joseph tries to hoist me off the floor but the movement is to painful. There's no way he can carry me and it's too painful to limp. He calls for an ambulance.
While waiting, I scoot across the linoleum to the door, sitting on the edge with the screen door propped open. My left leg resting on my right leg, holding my ankle. Joseph herds the boys back inside, instructing them to go up to their room to watch for the ambulance.
Several minutes later, the ambulance arrives with red and white lights flashing but no siren. Joseph waves them over to our townhouse. They arrive with a gurney and other equipment.
One EMT approaches, crouching down in front of me. He introduces himself as Steve and then introduces his partner, but I don't remember his name. Steve asks how I hurt myself.
I explain about hearing the hysterical woman, rushing down the stairs, the popping sound when I fell.
"Saving the world, huh?"
Something like that.
"So let me ask you this. Did your husband push you down the stairs?"
I laugh, immediately denying it, insisting that I fell. That's the truth. I don't need anyone to push me down the stairs when I can do a fine job of falling down the stairs all by myself.
Joseph and I let a friend stay at our house earlier in the week. We were her "safe house" after a domestic dispute. Three police arrived to sort out that situation. The EMT had no idea of this and he was probably asking if my husband pushed me down the stairs because he has to, but I didn't explain how that question hit my heart.
"Well, at least I got a laugh out of you."
He looks at my ankle, but doesn't touch it. He asks questions like on a scale of 1 to 10, how's the pain. (A 10.) He explains that my leg is probably broken, but an xray would have to confirm that. He makes a temporary splint out of rolled up sheets and pillow cases to stabilize and cushion my ankle during transport.
They maneuver me down the eight concrete steps to the sidewalk, strapped into a narrow wheel chair of sorts. They explain that this is easier than trying to carry me down the steps or trying to bring the gurney to me.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, they transfer me to the waiting gurney, strapping me in again, before wheeling me to the ambulance. Once inside, Steve hooks me up to a machine of some kind that gets my vitals like my heart rate, among other things. He starts asking questions like if I'm allergic to any medicines, etc.
As he moves about the interior of the ambulance, gathering supplies, I ask him if he ever broke any of his bones. Turns out he's a military vet who served two tours in Iraq. He's broken his wrist, among other injuries. I don't ask him to elaborate.
He explains that he's going to administer morphine to help ease the pain, to relax my body. My heart rate is stable, which is a good sign. Steve explains that my chest is going to feel warm when the morphine hits my blood stream. He insists that I must tell him if I feel nauseous so he can give me medicine for that too. He doesn't want to be barfed on.
As we start to drive toward the hospital, I confirm that my chest is feeling very warm. Not as intense as a hot flash, more like a warm flash. I don't feel nauseous at least. Almost immediately, the pain in my leg dulls. I start to feel loopy but I'm still aware.
Several minutes later, we arrive at the hospital. Both the EMTs wheel me in, stopping next to a counter where a nurse sits. Steve announces "She was trying to save the world and fell down the stairs."
For the second time in one night, this stranger's words have hit my heart.
More to come later...
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