One of my first visits to the ER came at the early age of 5 after my short career as an imaginary pilot. My aeronautical career started early one morning after my mother had dashed out to drive my older brothers to school. My dad was upstairs watching the baby, a sister I had pretty much chosen to ignore at the point. I'm sure my mom told me to do something while she was gone but since I couldn't recall what it was I searched for my own fun.
I wandered down the back stairs to the cold, dark basement. A pull of a string illuminated a single bulb in the front of the room. There wasn't much in the space, just a whole bunch of cement---gray cement floors that spilled out to gray cinderblock walls. An old, wooden table, my airplane, was waiting for me in the center of the room. A few rickety chairs were spread about; with a little maneuvering and my own strength I placed one of the chairs on top of the table. Using another chair as my ladder I climbed aboard and into my unsteady cockpit.
The accident occurred somewhere after take-off, most likely as I was leaning back in the seat from the force of the plane's ascension. All I really know is that I was up (on the table), and then I was down (on the floor).
It never feels good to tumble onto a cement floor. It fells even worse when the fall comes from three feet in the air with nothing but an arm bone to break the fall.
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