Sunday, April 1, 2012

Tensor bandages.

Today I believe I was delivered a lesson in Be careful what you're thinking.

After cheering on runners who completed the April Fool's Run (half-marathon between Gibsons and Sechelt), I headed out for a long brisk walk. Imagine a beautiful spring day, the Davis Bay esplanade lit in daffodils, the cheery trees exploding in pink blossoms, and birds on wires singing their prettiest songs.

I was thinking, on this walk, about tensor bandages, and how I can remember where they were kept in each of my last three homes. In Edmonton I had a tensor bandage in a kleenex box in the top of the bedroom closet with a few other items I rarely use, like hair curlers.

In Middle Lake (SK) the tensor bandage was kept in the cabinet above the toilet: a practical place, no?

In the City Park house (Saskatoon) the tensor bandages (there were two) were in the kitchen in the far right bottom cabinet reserved also for paid bills, maps, greeting cards, and craft supplies.

I have been fortunate not to have needed a tensor bandage for some time, but on this morning's walk -- the trees, the birds, the bluest sea -- I was not paying attention and hit the jagged edge of the pavement. Oops. I made meat of fingertips, scraped my right knee, and sprained my left ankle.

We have no tensor bandages in Sechelt.

I considered bothering the strangers in the nearest home and asking them to call Greg to drive over to get me -- about 5km from the house. Or I could put pressure on the foot and try to make my way back; sometimes it's best to get right back on the trail. I did the latter.

Greg was impressed with the velocity and size of the swelling, and grabbed me a bag of ice cubes wrapped in a tea towel.

A few hours later we were running errands and both agreed we'd happily detour if we saw any Open House signs. We did. A wonderful B and B operation called Tucker's Inn. The owner immediately noticed my hobbling, sat me down, cleaned my bloodied knee and wrapped my ankle in a tensor bandage he pulled out of a kitchen drawer like a rabbit from a hat.

I suppose this means that I won't be able to go for my traditional birthday run. I am 49 years old tomorrow. There are far worse things.

And I shall mind my thoughts.

No comments:

Post a Comment