When I broke my arm, I ended up pitched over my bike in a heap on the ground. The alley is a popular dog walking area, so I am incredibly THANKFUL I didn't land in a pile of dog poo. Having both of my children with me made it necessary to hold it together. As much as I wanted to scream and cry, I knew I couldn't.
Lula's assesment was that it looked like I was doing situps. I'd pull myself up and the pain would be so great that I'd have to lay down again. Luckily not in poo. Up and down. Up and down.
Finally, I decided to try to stand up and go get some help. My plan was to keep the hurt arm close to my body and use my good arm to push up, except even when my brain told me that my hurt arm was held close to my body it was actually swinging down towards the ground.
That's when I knew I wasn't going to be able to get out of this mess on my own.
The first man who came along said: I don't speak English.
And the second person, a woman, was 8.5 months pregnant.
It was at that moment I started imagining spending the rest of my life in the alley. In a shady quiet poo-free spot.