By coincidence a friend of ours from Santa Cruz was scheduled to undergo a procedure at the Cleveland Clinic just after we planned to drive by. He arrived there a few days before his surgery for pre-op tests and evaluation, and we made plans to drive in and meet him at his hotel, catch some lunch, and hear the news from Santa Cruz.
The pickings for campgrounds anywhere near Cleveland were slim. We settled on one about 40 minutes away from the hospital and pulled in and got settled the night before we were to meet our friend. It was not one of your upscale RV parks and looked like what you'd find in the backwoods of West Virginia or Zayante. The rain was coming down pretty good, and while our motorhome was on solid gravel footing, most of the campsite was wet and muddy.
At around eleven o'clock it was time to take the dogs out for their last run of the day. Because of the stormy and sloppy conditions, and the fact that they sleep on our bed, I decided to carry them one at a time to a gravel pad for their late night business.
Tammy Faye was first. She's kind of a load. I was carrying her in my arms, in the dark, when my foot slipped. I fell forward, banged my head on the slideout surface, and fell directly onto my back in the mud, still clutching Tammy Faye to my chest.
I took inventory. No acute pains. No loss of consciousness. I knew the month and year, and while I wasn't clear on the day of the month and the town I was in, I knew who the president was. I was pleased to note that Tammy Faye had held her bladder during the excitement and didn't seem emotionally damaged. Nothing worse than a dog with PTSD.
Surprisingly, there were no aftereffects the next day. Nancy and I met our friend in Cleveland, and we had a nice lunch. Traffic in Cleveland back to the motorhome was nothing like Chicago, and we headed East toward Nancy's parents and family in Pennsylvania.
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