43. Owwww . . .

After my collision with the runaway dumptruck that was Gus, I undertake a comprehensive consult with my favorite medical practitioner, Dr. Internet.  I learn that sufferers of concussion should avoid video and computer screens, but nevertheless I continue my consult long enough to confirm that no medical expertise or technology is required to diagnose concussion and that the only treatment for it is rest.  I learn that healing can take at least a week or two.  I get a sobering reminder of how damaging it can be to sustain a second head bump before a concussion has healed, so I sit quietly and walk carefully.  I learn the signs of a serious head injury, which I don’t have, but I read up on how to respond in case they develop.  I do have classic symptoms of a mild concussion:  persistent headache, fatigue, and a touch of mental fogginess. 

Also, as expected, every single muscle in my entire body is sore.  The slender cords in my throat from chin to collarbone, a surprisingly wide array of hip and shoulder sinews, little finger muscles I didn’t know I had — my every bend, turn, and inhalation makes them twang excruciatingly.  My very hair hurts.  I make an appointment with my sage and virtuosic physical therapist to ease my whiplash, and I settle into a routine of ice-packs and heating pads, napping and light reading, arnica and wintergreen and acetaminophen.

And to help pass the time, I make like a sportscaster analyzing a highlights reel.  Since Sandy was behind us and to our right, Gus shied away forward and to his left, where I was standing, rubbing his neck.  I’ve known since childhood never to loiter directly in front of equines, because they’re most frequently scared of goblins behind them, plus their vision is poor for objects (including humans) close in front of them.  Asleep at the switch, I had been standing imprudently adjacent to Gus’s head when he exploded.
 

And exploding is what equines do:  evolution has hard-wired them to panic first and ask questions later.  But even in terrified hysterics, they usually try to avoid crashes with humans.  As he trampled me, Gus actually, miraculously, managed to dance over my prostrate carcass without weighting his feet.  I clearly felt, and Sandy clearly saw, a hoof land flat on my breastbone, yet it left nary a bruise.  Impact with a charging donkey did me no harm; it was impact with the ground that hurt me.  Luckily it was springy, rain-softened turf rather than ice or pavement.

Still, exploding is what I could’ve done, if not for the competence of my skin and skeleton.  I can't help imagining, given how my hat and glasses flew (and I think my arms went spread-eagled too), that a breach in the sealed packet of my body would’ve resulted in a 180-degree internal-organ splatter zone behind ground zero.  I’m thankful that I stayed perfectly intact even under powerful G-forces — what a marvel is the human fuselage . . .