Injury On 13

I sit now to write and expunge my thoughts upon a screen composed of lighted dots. Such a soft glow to sharpen shadows can only reinforce the darkness that surrounds.  I wonder if my words convey idiocy or brilliance, for me they are only a shadow of reality. A mere trifle or bite, with wording never married to the thought, a concoction, disparate and bland upon the plate. Still I feel the need to write.

I feel lost to the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, that mount up and fade away. Sheeting torn from a calendar that I no longer mark upon. I know the very date that last saw my fingers cast a label upon it, January 13, 2004. An ill portent of numbers most often repelled with charms and the casting of salt. An unholy number for losers, a number that only the most disparate of gamblers could ever hope to win from, a number that before being torn from the calendar took my footing with it. Slipped away from me on smooth clear ice born from a sunny winter day. How many ill omens already averted by a mere tossing of salt had left no grace in the bag for me. All the ounces of prevention so hurriedly spent upon the road when the sun still shone, left none for journeys taken in the dark.

Such journeys I took every night by myself over small hills and steep grades. Traveling over concrete paths and small paved roads that wound round buildings and state run facilities poorly made up to resembles homes. Checking doors of abandoned offices to ensure the locks held back unseen invaders, and bringing thin respite of fifteen minutes to staff held in place by rules written in employee handbooks. To the residents who made this place their abode my job was simply to ensure their safety from each other and from the staff. It was of no matter if they slept or ran the halls so long as no injury was inflicted. For my own safety there was no concern, neither from my employers or the staff visited. Being a large man was by itself supposed to be a deterrent from harm brought by unwelcome trespassers or residents raging against the confines of their home, body, or mind.

As I had done many times before, I gathered my tools for the night. A pager, for those in need to leave numbers upon. A cell phone, for voices of immediacy that needed to be heard without inconvenience of numbers. Pen and paper, for jotting notes later expanded upon in reports given hurriedly to the oncoming shift. With such tools in hand I prepared to make my rounds for the night. Preparedness that was interrupted by a quick terse phone call from staff that no deicer could be found in the utility closet, did I have any tucked away. A quick check of closet and drawer showed that I too was bereft of any such device. Forewarned through a trip spent skating from car to office, I made to leave the building wherein my small office lay. Knowing that short slow steps would serve to lengthen the time of my trips and shorten the number I would be able to make.

Using the safety of winter grass and the thinning layer of crunchy snow I made way cross the patchy lawn to the first of the so called cottages where two staff and the residents they watched over awaited my first visit of the evening. The hazard of a narrow roadway was broached in diligence and a tiny thrill of slipping footsteps. The handrail of the steps up to the sidewalk, that perched on the side of the hill and ran in front of the first two cottages, brought a sense of safety to my treads as my hands numbed from the cold clutched the tubular steel. Breathing steadied by that minor comfort I ascended the steps and entered the cottage. Finding everything as it should be; I exchanged small pleasantries peppered with workplace gossip with the staff and sent them on their break. Reminding them both to be careful of the ice and to take a little extra time getting from the cottage to the converted garage that housed the break room. A bump, a bruise, a fall, caused by inattention while traversing the icy walkways could only serve to create more paperwork for themselves and me.

The two returned some 20 minutes later glad that their trip had occasioned no injury and determined to spend their remaining breaks on cottage in the employee office, against the written policy of the handbook. Both of these middle aged women had no desire to warrant a broken limb for the freedom of fifteen minutes in the break room or their cars, no matter what the policy might be. Having no desire for the extra hassle of written statements, safety reports, and workers compensation forms, I agreed to their request to remain on the cottage. With the promise of a return in two hours I ventured back out into the bitter cold using the back door of the building to skip the yards of concrete path that ran in front of the cottage. Using the side of the building for support, I crossed the patio and stepped back onto the sidewalk. Quickly grabbing onto the tubular railing that marched on the other side of the sidewalk I stopped to look up at the moon perched amongst the clouds with their edges picked out in its cool light. Moments to reassure myself and than the trek up the slow incline to the next cottage.

Reaching the doorway to the cottage I stopped once more to look over the nighttime winter landscape. Here at the highest point, which the facility sat on, I looked down at the buildings, walkways, roads, and street lamps. The cold moonlight washed over the chilling snow and ice, giving sparkling depth to icicles that hung from rooflines and gutters. Even as the January winter night lashed away my breath with snapping biting cold and sapped the strength of my tread I couldn’t deny the quiet still beauty it captured. Breaking from the vision that had held me I spied the faces of the staff that garrisoned this cottage looking back at me through the frosted glass of the front door. A diminutive man whose quick smile and wit would have welcomed him as jester to any court and an older woman well on her way to the wisdom of croonhood and only a few years from retirement. These two favorite denizens of the graveyard shift opened the door and hastened me in out of the chill. They were both fast in informing me that they would not be taking any breaks off cottage. The perilous trip from the side parking lot up the steeper incline on the far side of the cottage had given them enough of a fright to begin their time here and no more were needed. This side parking area was already infamous from some three winters previously when icy conditions had caused a number of the cars parked there on the highest part of the slant to slide down and into the lower vehicles.

Having finished my time with them engaged in conversation and banter as well as ensuring that all was well on the cottage I made my leave to journey onto the next. It is sufficient to say that the excursion onward was much the same. Seizing rails and fencing where available and crossing on frozen grass to elude glacial asphalt I visited the next two cottages. Greeted with complaints about the weather and lack of precaution on the part of the daytime supervisors, in not maintaining an adequate stock of deicer, my offer of a break away from cottage was denied by all but one.  The predilection for smoking a cigarette being a strong enough incentive for taking her respite off the cottage. Leaving the fourth cottage I was apprehensive about my route to the last one as the terrain was the most precipitous and had occasioned more than one injury during foul conditions.

Absurdly though I never reached the tilting avenue that lead to the end of my first sojourn around the campus. Passing out the postern door of the fourth cottage I found myself on an enclosed concrete square bound on two sides by the exterior walls of the cottage and on the other sides by a retaining wall surmounted by railing. The pitch of the roof along with the absence of gutters had allowed the melt of the snow to pool over the concrete and produce a serviceable rink of ice. The escape of the moon behind a bank of clouds with the inherent shadows of the space disguised the menace before me. The meager remains of salty deicer discarded by the previous shift counterfeited the belief that the area harbored no real danger. The first few steps furthered my conviction that I was safe as I felt no slippage of my feet. With false confidence I moved closer to the retaining wall hoping to latch myself on the railing and make way around the corner of the building and over to the grassy area on the other side of the wall and walkway. One perhaps two more small steps and I would have been safely in reach of the rails. Suddenly one foot shot out from under me unbalancing my other foot from its perch on the ice and I was falling forward. Reaching in front of me for the rails my feet desperate to find traction I caught at the rails my left hand fastening to the icy metal as I continued my travesty of a pratfall. Witnesses, though I lacked any, would have probably found it more comedic than tragic. Feet and legs splayed out behind me dragging across the floe I slammed into the retraining wall and grabbed the rails with my right hand. Dangling like a puppet from the frigid bar I slowly pulled myself back up, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the sleet.  Shock and fear dampened other feelings leaving only a vague notion of pain. Making it to my feet I held onto the railing and stepped crabwise along the wall. Promptly deprived of my support I sprawled once more against the traverse and strove to regain my stance. After a few more tentative steps I gained the safety of the belt of lawn and hastened to return to my office.

Ensconced within my office the fear and adrenaline of what had just preceded quickly faded. Leaving the throbbing ache of muscles to take its place. The wrenching I suffered was rapid in making itself known stabbing down legs and cramping the muscles in the lower back. Settling myself comfortably as I could within the confines of the old desk chair I began calling the cottages. The details of what had happened and the fact that I would be making no more rounds for the night were shared with the staff on the cottages and met with condolences and prayers. Paperwork, forms, and reports were pulled from files in the desk along with a bottle of tylenol and I began the next hour detailing the incident. There was no impetus to find a replacement for myself, as I knew from past experience there would be none available. I was also competent that if any real emergency arose I could surmount my current state and would be able to effectively deal with it.

Later, as time and the growing sense of pain began I learned the true extent of my injuries. Shock, adrenaline, a sense of duty, and a rural life spent with two brothers wrestling and beating each other had all lent me a diminished perception of pain. Soon I began to learn the regiment of a life dictated by chiropractors, therapists, doctors, medication, and workers compensation adjusters. Each of them having schedules devoid of sympathy for the other. The calendar that I had formerly used to mark and label my days, to give order to my coming and goings, was no longer under my control. Unexpectedly I began to lose the awareness of days and weeks and months. The regulation of my time by others and my inability to set my own agenda robbed me of my sense of self and place. Dependence on others stole my recognition of self worth. Why bother to count the days when the landmarks of my life became the bailiwick of others. Isolated moments of self-awareness caused me to demand an accounting of what had happened and for a reckoning of what was to be done. Through the haze of bureaucracy, opinions, judgments, and inconsistencies of the new lords of my life I plodded. Escaping within I lost all direction, the drive to continue fueled by nothing expect a longing for it to all go away. From one physician to another I was prodded to go along. Each of them focusing energy and commitment to the one statement guaranteed to bring lackluster treatment; Workers Compensation.

The calendar has finally fallen back into my hands. The dictatorship of workers compensation broken by denials that they were in any way responsible for my continuing problems. Their avowed belief that nothing was wrong allowed me to escape the grasp they had had on my life. The loss of the limiting label of their name made possible real treatment by dedicated experts. Experts who tested, diagnosed, and treated my injuries. Sadly telling me that the extra time spuriously taken by those who had run my life had also taken hope for a full recovery. Still they promised, they could lessen the impact and reduce the pain. With devotion to my impairment that I had come not to expect, they helped me find my way back. Complications from the surgeries that followed and the lingering affects of my injuries persevere to limit my dominion over the calendar. The malaise afflicted upon me by others manipulation persists in veiling my self will. Three years have passed with little or no import on my part. The calendar sits on the wall awaiting my hand. The foremost mark or label I shall affix upon its face will be to obliterate the number thirteen.