July First
I left New York on the nineteenth of June--had a fall, not fatal, perhaps a karmic debt repaid. Most certainly a wake up call.
First my bag of food, then my rolling case, went tumbling down the escalator at Penn Station. It was quite comic in retrospect, with the boarding conductor desperately trying to gather up limes and other loose food stuff so the escalator wouldn't jam, then, just as I reached the bottom, I fell over my case and landed on my shoulder--the one I've dislocated twice in the past two decades--an Achilles shoulder instead of a heel--I got up slowly. Asked if I wanted assistance I replied in the affirmative...wanting someone to drag my bags to the boarding coach way down the tunnel since my right arm was glued to my side...but, he left and got the Station Master, whose only concern was whether or not I required 'medical' assistance. I turned him down knowing I'd miss the train if I said yes, and determined to get to my friends. I dragged my own bags, and only got help from the train man to board. No one else offered help, and one or two passengers had actually stepped over me when I was down. It was a strange day, pressed atmosphere with all seeming in a great hurry though the train was twenty minutes late. My Massachusetts friend helped me with bags on arrival, and the for the next two days I slept, applied homeopathic salves and ice and heat alternately.
Solstice eve I saw the bruise. From then on I did nothing strenuous, continued treatments, and enjoyed the surrounds despite the constant ache.
For the return trip I scheduled assists with Amtrak in advance. Home now, still aching but improved.
More cheerful trip scenes next post.
