This is not a story about a family vacation or about the car ride to get there. No, it’s more about one event that stayed with me weeks later. A small part of the trip led to my second season of being stuck at home.
Let me give you the background of the story, the details to set the scene. I could tell you the other things, but this is beginning of the story of what lingered.
It was the August before eighth grade. Our beach trip had just begun.
We enjoyed the first day of sitting on the warm sand and jumping in the Atlantic Ocean. I never ventured far since I can’t swim on my own, but I would stand in the surf with someone holding onto me. The waves gently crashed into my legs. That was my kind of refreshment at the beach (and it still is).
Relatives lived in the area so we went to visit for the afternoon. My brothers were fishing in the pond behind the house and I didn’t want to miss the fun. Holding my arm for security, my dad and I headed to the backyard. Side by side we walked, but we didn’t realize the deck had two levels.
Another step forward and we both tumbled in different directions. It felt like I fell in slow motion while my dad quickly hit the deck. In reality, everything happened fast. Somehow there was just enough time for him to catch my head. It sounds crazy, I know. But amazingly I didn’t have a scrap on my face, except a minor cut on my lip.
When he stood me back on my feet, I knew something wasn’t right with my ankle. The right foot didn’t feel properly connected and it hurt a lot. I could tell there was an injury and I would need a doctor. We were hours from home, it was our vacation, and I didn’t want to go to the ER where doctors knew nothing about my medical history. We decided to wait. I would see my orthopedist at home.
We weren’t leaving until Thursday. It was only Monday.