About ten years ago, rains pounded almost the entire state in what was called a major storm cycle.

            Winds blew down entire trees, blocking roads and bringing down power lines. Branches landed on top of cars, breaking windows, and on roofs, punching huge holes that demolished buildings. Mushy leaves formed a slippery mush and tiny sticks littered the ground.

            It was a great time to stay indoors, but for someone like me, that’s a virtual impossibility. Come rain or shine I go to the gym, usually five days a week, taking time off to hike with a friend or walk the neighborhood with my husband, weather permitting.

            November turned cold and dark skies gave off an eerie gloom.

            We hadn’t seen our youngest son in a long, long time, so when he invited us to drive up to Eureka to visit, we eagerly agreed to go.

            A few days prior to leaving, I headed off to the gym. Our driveway has a slight slant to it, nothing worrisome. But because I knew how slippery it could be, I carefully chose where to plant my feet.

            I did pretty good. Had almost made it to the trunk of my car, when down I went. My right ankle popped, but because I couldn’t sit out there in the rain, I got up and limped back inside. I truly thought it was a slight sprain, so I elevated and iced.

            As the evening progressed, the pain didn’t lesson and it began swelling.

            After dinner, I decided it was time to go to the ER, convinced nothing was broken. Foolishly I walked into the hospital when my husband could have parked under the portico, found a wheelchair, parked the truck, then pushed me inside. But no, I chose to walk across the parking lot, which was quite a distance to the doors.

            As soon as I told the clerk what had happened, she told someone to bring me a wheelchair. The ER, for some reason, wasn’t busy, so within about ten minutes I was rolled inside.

            X-rays showed a fracture close to the ankle. The doctors discussed whether or not I needed surgery, to insert a metal rod into my leg.

            While all this was happening, I lay on a gurney in a hall, on my stomach, with my leg bent, keeping my ankle elevated.

            The swelling was so severe that a cast could not be put on. Instead they wrapped my leg, from my knee down to around my foot, in a thick pad of cotton. I was given crutches, which I’ve never been able to use, and sent home.

            The following week I was to return for x-rays and a cast.

            And I was instructed to stay home.

            No way. Not when a child we seldom get to see invites us. I was going to Arcata, and that was that.

            It rained the entire six-hour trip. When we stopped for lunch and for the restroom, I hobbled as best I could, trying to keep the “cast” from getting wet.

            By the time we parked in front of our son’s house, the gutter was a quick-moving stream.

            My husband’s mom had a wheelchair she wasn’t using, which we borrowed. It worked quite well getting me up the driveway to the porch, but that leg was sticking out, getting wet.

            Prior to our arrival, not knowing about my broken leg, our son had made reservations at a restaurant in old town Eureka. It was an Arts Alive Friday night, a festive evening in which studios were open for exploration.

            There was no parking in front of the building and you weren’t allowed to stop, even to unload passengers. We found an open spot in a lot across the street.

            It was a bumpy ride, the pavement filled with cracks now resembling tiny pools. The vibration was intense and I clung to the handles, hoping not to be thrown out. Down one gutter, which was a stream. Down the alley, which ended in a creek. A dash across the street to what looked like a drive, but when my front wheels hit the edge, I almost toppled out.

            By the time we arrived inside, I was soaked and so was my cast.

            It poured and poured while we ate.

            When the bill had been paid, we stepped outside to a deluge. There was no way I’d be able to go in and out of studios, so the decision was made to go home.

            Our son ran across the street, which was now a river, got the car and parked illegally in front of the restaurant. I switched from chair to crutches to get into the car, but because I can’t swing my legs forward, I had to step down.

            The same when we got to the house.

            The damage had been done. The cast was drenched, but there was nothing I could do until we returned home two days later.

            The ordeal, as that was what it was, resembled walking on water. Or maybe sinking into the muck.