What Ifs

I’m generally a very cautious person. You know the kind: the one who double- and maybe triple-checks the locks before bedtime; who pays attention during any safety lectures on public transportation; who rarely crosses a street against the light; and who never, ever runs with scissors.

Thus it was out of character for me to make a mad dash across the street, not even in the crosswalk … in the city of Chicago.

I needed to get to the train station and was running a bit later than I wanted to be (although that’s probably still a half hour before anyone else would worry). During the week there are buses every 10 minutes or so, and a couple of different routes go to the train station, but at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday, options are more limited. If the timing was off, it could be disastrous (i.e. I’d have to spend big bucks for a cab). As I walked out of my apartment building, I saw a bus a couple of blocks away. Hurray! But I would have to get across the street and up about a block to be at the stop. Glancing both ways, it seemed safe. There was some light traffic but nothing too close at the moment, so I took off.

I’m still not sure exactly what happened -- whether I tripped on something or just stumbled over my own feet. (It could have simply been my body’s shock at the rare event of running anywhere.) The next thing I knew, I was flat on the street with the breath knocked out of me and an extremely painful lower lip. Thank goodness the drivers at that hour were paying attention, because I’m sure they had to wait a few moments for me to struggle up, grab my bags, and stagger to the opposite curb. (During rush hour I probably would have been roadkill.) As I walked, I took quick inventory: no severe pain, no bones sticking out, but palms and knees were tingling unpleasantly. There was a nasty, wet feeling on my lip and chin and when I brushed at it, my hand came away with red streaks. I got to the bus stop and fumbled for some tissues to blot my lower lip, which already felt twice its normal size.

The rest of the story is not terribly exciting. I made it to the train station in plenty of time to check the bathroom mirror and reassure myself that I would not frighten small children. The lip was painful, but I could still eat and drink with the family that weekend. About a week later, the only lingering problem is what feels like a strained muscle in my right side.

But as sometimes happens with an accident, whether big or small, we go back to the “what ifs.” What if there had been more traffic? What if I’d broken a rib, an arm, a leg? What if my glasses had flown off and broken? What if I’d left the apartment just a few moments sooner, or even later?

Sometimes I think about “what ifs” in more normal situations as well. How would my life be different if I went to the store on a Wednesday instead of a Thursday? At 4:00 instead of 5:00? … If I turned right instead of left leaving the apartment building, or didn’t even leave that day? Probably there would be no earth-shaking ramifications from any of these small decisions -- but of course, I’ll never know. What I do know is that regardless of the turns, I have few regrets about the path I’ve taken up until now. Sure, there are some things I’d do differently, but I feel like I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. For example, sometimes I wish I’d moved to Chicago sooner and started on my current career path earlier in life. But when I think back, I have to admit I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle being on my own in the big city if I’d come here at a younger age.

I think of friends I’ve met because I decided to go to a gathering or a meeting, and I wonder what friendships I may have missed by talking myself out of going to some of those events.

Of course you can drive yourself crazy with the “what ifs,” and there’s not a lot to be gained from looking back. So for now, I’ll just have to suffer through a stiff, sore side for a few weeks and focus more on where I’m going.

And wait for “Walk” signs.

LH