So I was out in our snowy backyard throwing Peter’s ‘squirrel’, which is his favorite past time. I had my cane with me, since plodding through deep snow is not one of my strong points. I had tossed it half a dozen times, when I toppled over backwards. In shock, I unwittingly tossed my cane. Landing on my butt, cushioned by fairly deep snow, I suspect I turned the air a lovely shade of blue.
After a few seconds of assessment, I twisted on to my knees, and tried to get up as I usually do. That was when I realized I had nothing to pull myself up on. My cane would have loved to help me, but it was resting about twenty feet away. Calls for help went unanswered, so I began to crawl.
My knees have never really liked me, so they were quite indignant at this cold wet experience. The pain was infuriating me, as I began to sniffle, and mutter to myself. I could have sworn that as I edged closer to it, my cane moved further away.
Eventually I reached what I hoped would be my saviour. It took a few minutes to find a spot that would not simply swallow the majority of the length of the cane. Soon enough, I struggled a pushed my way to my feet.
Back in the house, I got rid of my snow-soaked jeans, and made a cup of tea. My head is gently throbbing, and my mood is grim. This little adventure has left me slightly shaken, and questioning my ability to manage on my own.