Lessons from the Garage Floor

While watching football with my husband tonight, they carried a player off the field with a knee injury, and it took me back to a little DIY adventure of my own a few years ago. When my husband and I moved into our home, I had a long list of projects I wanted to do. I come from the “why call someone when you can injure yourself for free” school of thought. One of my early projects was simple enough: hang blinds in the garage so no one could see our collection of junk and add “security” against prowlers who might covet an old rake and a box of mystery cords.

Most of the windows were easy to reach with my trusty step ladder - the wide-footed, “safe for klutzes” kind. But one window sat above a built-in workbench, just high enough to make things awkward with the ladder. I could have asked for help. I didn’t. I used the ladder to climb up onto the counter instead.

When I finished, I turned to climb back down. The top step of the ladder suddenly looked miles away, and my stomach did that little vertigo lurch. Instead of sitting down to slide off (which, looking back, seems way more obvious...and safer), I crouched and jumped. Maybe I was worried about splinters in places better left unmentioned; maybe I just overestimated my athleticism. Either way, I hit the floor, my knee buckled, and I heard something that sounded expensive.

I sat there, poking things for a minute to see if I’d broken anything. It didn’t hurt badly, just throbbed with that deep “you messed up” ache. I should mention, the house is a two-story Victorian farmhouse. David’s office is upstairs at the far end from the garage. The garage sits about five steps down from the main floor. There is no way he could hear me if I yelled for him. In his office, he was completely unaware that his wife was sprawled on the garage floor having a spiritual conversation with her kneecap. After a few more minutes of denial and bargaining (I skipped acceptance), I decided to hop my way up the stairs and into the family room. I flopped onto the couch and yelled, “Honey! I did a thing!”

Turns out, I didn’t tear anything, but I did manage to crush a little corner off my tibia bone and stretched the tendons out pretty good. They had nothing to hold onto, which explained why my knee kept popping out to the side every time I put weight on it. It took two years to heal well enough to walk without a limp. Two years of walking slower, icing, limping, and learning to ask for help once in a while. Apparently, “I can do it myself” has a price tag.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef