The last leg of a long fall

There’s a certain feeling you get when you realize you just did something that’s really going to hurt.

The thought that immediately comes to mind is, “Oops!” or “Oh @#$%!” or whatever goes for “This is a big mistake.”

I got that feeling Thursday when I let go of a fence I was climbing over.

The barbed-wire fence my wife and I were cutting deadfall off is only 4 feet tall, on level ground, so usually it takes no more time than a camera flash to touch down on the other side.

But I hopped it next to a creek, on a slope, so the other side was not 4 feet down. When I let go, and the touchdown was not a camera flash but a timed exposure, I thought, “Oh @#$%!”

It was a big mistake.

My left heel hit first, and drove my shin bone into my kneecap, chipping the top of my tibia. So now I need surgery.

I was not aware of this at the time, as I scrambled to my feet and nearly passed out. But I had an idea, when I felt my shin and found the bone askew. But I thought, “How could I stand were my leg broken?”

I got a downed limb to lean on, limped to a pool in the creek and soaked my leg for 30 minutes or so. Then I staggered home, put the leg on ice and loaded up on painkillers.

Had my leg not been swollen tight the next day, I might not have gone to the doctor, because how could I be standing on a broken leg?

“Don’t put any weight on that leg,” the doctor said, adding I would need crutches or a wheelchair.

Now I have a retort to anyone who says one of my bad habits is a “crutch.”

“No, THIS is a crutch,” I say.

Having once taken pride in anticipating stupid mistakes — physical ones, anyway — I was embarrassed.

I’m susceptible to injuring myself, sometimes in a spectacular fashion, like the time I hit a stump hole pumping a 10-speed bike in top gear off a hill, and flew like 20 feet before breaking my clavicle; or the time I broke a toe lighting bottle rockets on a gas stove and throwing them out a trailer door.

I since have tried to gauge hazardous conditions in advance and use some protection. I won’t grill out or get the fireplace going without leather gloves, nor ride a horse without a helmet. (On me, not the horse.)

But I’ve no defense against irony.

I was wearing hiking boots designed to stop a slide. The heels dig in so the hiker doesn’t slip down a slope and go over a cliff. They worked.

Had I slid like a sled, I might have only bruised my butt. (Or broken my hip.) But the heel caught.

Since then, more ice has melted on my leg than in my drink.

And I’ve learned that RICE is not just a side order but a device for remembering Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation to treat such an injury. I learned this from my Girl Scout wife, amid inquiries such as “Can you drive?” and “What were you thinking?”

These are lessons to keep in mind, so remember to look before you leap, because you might not want to stick the landing.

This story was originally published July 10, 2016 at 8:00 PM with the headline "The last leg of a long fall."