Without any of the grace.
That’s the description my best friend gave me when I asked what I looked like as I rolled into a dirty Parisian gutter.
She’s got a way with words, that one.
For my 50th birthday, I spent 2 fantastic weeks in Paris. On the morning of our last day, my best friend and I rushed outside of the hotel to catch the bus. As we approached the bus stop, I veered slightly in order to see past a woman blocking my view. I couldn’t tell you if the bus was approaching or not, because I suddenly found myself on the road in the nasty gutter.
My brain struggled to make sense of what had happened, and why my ankle screamed in pain while my knee bled. I vaguely remember saying that I thought my ankle was broken, and that I wasn’t sure how I would get up. Which was a real concern since I landed exactly where the incoming bus would stop. From what I’ve pieced together, I veered further than I thought I had and I rolled over my ankle before crashing down.
Parisians have long held a reputation for being rude and snotty to foreigners. That’s not my personal experience. And when I found myself literally bleeding in the street that day, it was a crowd of Parisians who swarmed in to offer assistance and help my best friend get me to my feet. The hotel staff jumped into action with genuine concern and medical supplies. The triage nurse at the hospital went above and beyond, communicating with me throughout the long hours I was in Emergency via the translation app on his mobile. The lovely taxi driver suggested he wait with us, keeping me in the car while my best friend dealt with the friendly pharmacist at the 24/7 pharmacy in the dodgy neighbourhood in the middle of the night. Without my best friend and all of these kind Parisians, I’m not sure how I’d have managed tbh.
But back to me, since this is my midlife crisis blog. The details of the following day and weeks are still a bit too fresh to discuss. Paris has become a favourite sort of second home over the years and this accident has traumatized me in such a way that I don’t know if/when I’ll return. Le sigh
Hopefully one day I’ll be able to share about my experience with a Parisian hospital, traveling home on crutches and in a walking cast, the multiple visits to the hospital and Practitioner’s office I’ve made since returning home, et cetera.
But for now I’ll simply say this: I’m f-cking over it. It’s been weeks, and I’m still under medical care, still in a walking cast, still on crutches, still injured with a broken ankle and mangled knee.
On a positive note, I’ve expanded my vocabulary (though only to now include words like avulsion fracture, MCL and meniscus). And while I’m no ballerina, I like to think that I helped in my own little way to further wipe away the stupid stereotype about Parisians.
Marla, Unpacked 