Well, it all started sometime around the year 19-seems-like-forever-ago, when I went to watch my bestfriend, Claire, jump from a perfectly good airplane. "Sounds like fun!" I said. I went out to the DZ (drop zone)and watched her go through the class, and jump. Awesome! Right there and then I decided that this was definitely something I had to try. But, being a starving college student and skydiving being an expensive hobby, I found myself in a predicament. What to do? How to do? As I spent the next few weeks hanging out at the drop zone, watching all the action (in air and on the ground...), I stumbled on a money-making opportunity: Skydivers would rather skydive than anything else, especially packing parachutes. They were willing to pay good money to almost anyone who would pack their chute. Ka-ching! One afternoon packing class was all it took - Within a few more weeks "Plain Jayne" was making money packing.
Yes, hated being called "plain" anything. But ya' see, at the time, the drop zone was populated with Ironworkers. These rough-and-tumble guys had nicknames for everyone: Red Baron, Captain Cut-away, the Reverend (note: not the altar boy type), White Boy, etc. I felt flattered (and a little nervous) that they gave me a nickname at all.
"Hey! Plain Jayne! Ya' done with my rig?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! When ya' gonna jump with us?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Come on, ya' ever gonna jump, or what?"
After 2 1/2 long months of packing parachutes, eating only PBJ sandwiches (sometimes without the bread), and stealing T.P. from public bathrooms, I had saved enough money to jump. I made my reservation for the next Saturday class, and showed up at 7:00 AM
"Hey-hey, Plain Jayne! Hear ya'lls jumpin' today! Can I go on your load?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! This here is the Red Baron! He's gonna be in class with you."
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Ya' scared?"
I just smiled at them, and breezed on by. Little did they know that I had been flying in my dreams all my life - this skydiving thing was gonna be a snap!
Class flew (pun intended) by and it was finally time to jump. I remember that Ray was my jumpmaster, and Red Baron was on the load, but I don't remember who the other jumper was. sorry, some memories aren't as clear as others. I do know that Ray was only supposed to snap one photo, but said my, "exit was so clean he snapped off the whole roll." Personally, I think he was just twitterpated with me....... :)
Jump was great - just like my dreams. Did a perfect landing, which at that time meant thudding non-gracefully on the ground and trying not to break body parts. Red Baron and I were jumping, screaming, hugging and hollering as everyone ran out to greet us.
"Plain Jayne! Plain Jayne! You looked awesome!"
"Plain Jayne! Plain--"
"Hold up!" interjected Red Baron. "She ain't 'Plain Jayne' no more. She's Airplane Jayne."
Twenty-plus years later, I'm still called Airplane Jayne. what can I say? sure beats "Plain Jayne" anyday.
Showing posts with label skydiving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label skydiving. Show all posts
Friday, July 6, 2007
skydiving-accident
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
Those are the words I wrote in shakey-hand print, trying to explain what the ventilator felt like, trying to explain why there was fear in my eyes, trying to explain why I was afraid to go to sleep.
How did I end up here? Oh yeah, I remember…
I was preparing for landing – worrying a bit about some power lines, but not wanting to make any turns low to the ground. “Remain focused” I said to myself.
“Turn Right!” screamed Don.
Instinctively, I pulled my right toggle down. Oops, wrong move, too low to the ground. But too low to pull out of the turn – if I had let up on the steering toggle, I would have landed on my face. “Oh shit” I thought to myself, “Prepare for the hardest landing of your—“
They estimated my impact at approximately 50 miles per hour, give or take. Unfortunately, my femur did not agree with the give and take, and it broke, probably on my first of three impacts with Mother Nature.
I sat up, pulled my ‘chute underneath me. Moved right arm, check. Moved left arm, check. Moved left leg, check. Moved right leg….move right leg? Aww, what’s that pokey thing trying to poke thru my leg? Aww shit, that’s my bone! No wonder it hurts like a M.F.er.
A quick ride to Fresno via ambulance, although I made ‘em turn on lights and siren, since I was paying for the ride. Thru a comedy of errors, none of which was funny, I ended up at VMC – which I referred to as “Very Many Cokeheads.” (Please do not defend the place…unless you have stayed there, I will not listen to you)
“Well Ms. Day, you have a compound fracture to your femur.”
“Duh” I thought silently, but said, “Oh, really? What needs to be done?”
“Well, we can put you in traction for 5-15 days, followed by a cast. Or we can do this new surgery: we’ll insert a steel rod down the middle of your femur. No cast, and you’ll be home in 3-4days.”
“I’ll take surgery for two, thanks Alex.”
Three days later found me being rushed down a hallway. Seems they had done the surgery too quickly, sending globules (their word, swear) of that stuff in the middle of my femur into my lungs, heading for my heart. In technical terms: an embolism.
I watch episodes of ER, fascinated with the process of “intubating.” The patient is always asleep or knocked out. The doctors usually get it on the first try, never more than the second try. Doesn’t look hard or painful. In the show that was my reality, I was awake, wide awake. The tube went down three times, feeling like it was shredding and tearing my throat, and three times it came back up. The fourth time one of the doctors said to the other to get ready, because they might have to do a trach on me. The fourth time (not the third time) was a charm. I was hooked up.
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
The doctors come in, stand around my bed and whisper. They check my heart, my blood pressure, the machines. They whisper more. They shake their heads. One finally looks at me and says, “Do you have any next of kin you’d like us to notify?”
“Next of kin?” I thought panickedly, “What do you mean? Am I gonna—“
I reached for the pen and paper that had become my sole means of communication. Frantically I scrawled my boss’ number. He would help. He would call my folks. He would help. He would—
Mr. G arrived within 30 minutes. He sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel Jayne?”
Am I gonna die? I wrote.
“The doctors say it doesn’t look good. But how do you feel?”
The doctors are assholes. They’re wrong, I wrote.
Mr. G sat with me for awhile, told me to be strong, and said he’d pray for me, and call my mom. He stood to leave, and told me he’d see me in the morning.
So there I was: in an ICU room at VMC, alone and afraid. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that if I fell asleep, I would die. So, in the wisdom of youth and terror, I decided that if I didn’t go to sleep, I couldn’t die. (That’s when I discovered that alarm thing on skipping the breath. Momentary moment of Pythonesque humor involving doctors and nurses screaming at me to breath, and me frozen in terror at the alarms, buzzers and screaming...)
So the whole “staying awake and not dying thing” worked…until somewhere around 2:00 AM. I found myself alone (still), and exhausted. I found myself no longer afraid to die, but sad. Sad that my Mom was hundreds of miles away, thinking it was only a broken leg (because that’s what I had told her) and there was nothing to worry about until she got the call today from the hospital and Mr. G. Sad that I hadn’t been able to talk to her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t see her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her. Sad…but more exhausted. Too exhausted to keep breathing like this. Too exhausted to keep on.
“Okay, God,” I prayed, “I guess it is YOUR WIIL, not mine. Whatever YOU want. I’m just sorry that I can’t see my Mom…..” And I faded off….
I remember that I heard noise. “Noise,” I thought, “Noise could be a good thing….noise could also be a bad thing. Not feeling hot flames….that could be good…..Maybe I’ll sneak a peak…..Please be white, not red, please be white, not red, please—“
When I opened my eyes, I was still in ICU at VMC….not heaven…not hell (although close). Guess God had more plans for me.
My accident happened on my 15th jump, I went on to make approximately 150 more jumps. Trust me, #16 was the hardest jump I ever made. I tell people that skydiving is not a dangerous sport, but it is also not a forgiving sport. Most people don’t live to get a second chance; I did. Of course, because the handymen at VMC believed in a “measure once and cut once” practice, I have one leg that is shorter than the other, set 30 degrees off, and a hole in my hip…. J
It also gave me a unique view on life, etc. I truly believe that if my Mom had been with me, I would have felt okay to leave, and that it was my need for her, and God’s plan for me, that kept me “earthbound.” Family, friends, and faith remain the most important aspects of my life, and not a day/week goes by without me telling at least one of them how important they are to me and to the world.
Those are the words I wrote in shakey-hand print, trying to explain what the ventilator felt like, trying to explain why there was fear in my eyes, trying to explain why I was afraid to go to sleep.
How did I end up here? Oh yeah, I remember…
I was preparing for landing – worrying a bit about some power lines, but not wanting to make any turns low to the ground. “Remain focused” I said to myself.
“Turn Right!” screamed Don.
Instinctively, I pulled my right toggle down. Oops, wrong move, too low to the ground. But too low to pull out of the turn – if I had let up on the steering toggle, I would have landed on my face. “Oh shit” I thought to myself, “Prepare for the hardest landing of your—“
They estimated my impact at approximately 50 miles per hour, give or take. Unfortunately, my femur did not agree with the give and take, and it broke, probably on my first of three impacts with Mother Nature.
I sat up, pulled my ‘chute underneath me. Moved right arm, check. Moved left arm, check. Moved left leg, check. Moved right leg….move right leg? Aww, what’s that pokey thing trying to poke thru my leg? Aww shit, that’s my bone! No wonder it hurts like a M.F.er.
A quick ride to Fresno via ambulance, although I made ‘em turn on lights and siren, since I was paying for the ride. Thru a comedy of errors, none of which was funny, I ended up at VMC – which I referred to as “Very Many Cokeheads.” (Please do not defend the place…unless you have stayed there, I will not listen to you)
“Well Ms. Day, you have a compound fracture to your femur.”
“Duh” I thought silently, but said, “Oh, really? What needs to be done?”
“Well, we can put you in traction for 5-15 days, followed by a cast. Or we can do this new surgery: we’ll insert a steel rod down the middle of your femur. No cast, and you’ll be home in 3-4days.”
“I’ll take surgery for two, thanks Alex.”
Three days later found me being rushed down a hallway. Seems they had done the surgery too quickly, sending globules (their word, swear) of that stuff in the middle of my femur into my lungs, heading for my heart. In technical terms: an embolism.
I watch episodes of ER, fascinated with the process of “intubating.” The patient is always asleep or knocked out. The doctors usually get it on the first try, never more than the second try. Doesn’t look hard or painful. In the show that was my reality, I was awake, wide awake. The tube went down three times, feeling like it was shredding and tearing my throat, and three times it came back up. The fourth time one of the doctors said to the other to get ready, because they might have to do a trach on me. The fourth time (not the third time) was a charm. I was hooked up.
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
The doctors come in, stand around my bed and whisper. They check my heart, my blood pressure, the machines. They whisper more. They shake their heads. One finally looks at me and says, “Do you have any next of kin you’d like us to notify?”
“Next of kin?” I thought panickedly, “What do you mean? Am I gonna—“
I reached for the pen and paper that had become my sole means of communication. Frantically I scrawled my boss’ number. He would help. He would call my folks. He would help. He would—
Mr. G arrived within 30 minutes. He sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel Jayne?”
Am I gonna die? I wrote.
“The doctors say it doesn’t look good. But how do you feel?”
The doctors are assholes. They’re wrong, I wrote.
Mr. G sat with me for awhile, told me to be strong, and said he’d pray for me, and call my mom. He stood to leave, and told me he’d see me in the morning.
So there I was: in an ICU room at VMC, alone and afraid. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that if I fell asleep, I would die. So, in the wisdom of youth and terror, I decided that if I didn’t go to sleep, I couldn’t die. (That’s when I discovered that alarm thing on skipping the breath. Momentary moment of Pythonesque humor involving doctors and nurses screaming at me to breath, and me frozen in terror at the alarms, buzzers and screaming...)
So the whole “staying awake and not dying thing” worked…until somewhere around 2:00 AM. I found myself alone (still), and exhausted. I found myself no longer afraid to die, but sad. Sad that my Mom was hundreds of miles away, thinking it was only a broken leg (because that’s what I had told her) and there was nothing to worry about until she got the call today from the hospital and Mr. G. Sad that I hadn’t been able to talk to her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t see her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her. Sad…but more exhausted. Too exhausted to keep breathing like this. Too exhausted to keep on.
“Okay, God,” I prayed, “I guess it is YOUR WIIL, not mine. Whatever YOU want. I’m just sorry that I can’t see my Mom…..” And I faded off….
I remember that I heard noise. “Noise,” I thought, “Noise could be a good thing….noise could also be a bad thing. Not feeling hot flames….that could be good…..Maybe I’ll sneak a peak…..Please be white, not red, please be white, not red, please—“
When I opened my eyes, I was still in ICU at VMC….not heaven…not hell (although close). Guess God had more plans for me.
My accident happened on my 15th jump, I went on to make approximately 150 more jumps. Trust me, #16 was the hardest jump I ever made. I tell people that skydiving is not a dangerous sport, but it is also not a forgiving sport. Most people don’t live to get a second chance; I did. Of course, because the handymen at VMC believed in a “measure once and cut once” practice, I have one leg that is shorter than the other, set 30 degrees off, and a hole in my hip…. J
It also gave me a unique view on life, etc. I truly believe that if my Mom had been with me, I would have felt okay to leave, and that it was my need for her, and God’s plan for me, that kept me “earthbound.” Family, friends, and faith remain the most important aspects of my life, and not a day/week goes by without me telling at least one of them how important they are to me and to the world.
forks in the road
A recent post by Lecram asked for that one moment you would want to remain in for all eternity. I pondered that for days: settling on one moment Thursday, only to discard and replace it with another on Friday, and then onto a different one on Saturday. And this is supposed to be a good thing? To last for eternity? Geez, almost seems like Hell to have to select only one.
So of course, since my (current) philosophy is “rules, schmules, we don’t need no stinking rules!” I decided, “What the heck. How about writing about a moment in your life that only in hindsight, do you realize was a crossroads?” You know, those seemingly (at the time) inconsequential moments that you look back on and say, “Hey! What if I had done ‘x’ instead of ‘y’?” What if I had stayed in Nebraska? What if I didn’t start skydiving? What if? One of my favorite whatifs, is Dominic.
Ah…..Dominic. Dom was Italian, and spoke little English. He came out to the drop zone one Saturday morning with (I think) his cousin. He wanted to, “how-a you say? I-a, wan to-a shjump from plane, yes?”
Geez, one look at his bod, and I just wanted to bounce on his abs….seriously.
But what was I thinking? I was “in a relationship” with Mike. I had to stop looking at those abs….those eyes…..dear lord those thighs….. And yet, there stood Dom in front of me, chest and leg straps undone.
“AirplaneShjayne. You-a help me, yes?”
Stop staring Shjay—jayne! Think about Mike! Your relationship! What relationship? More like a joke! Oh yeah, I was in a relationship. I had stopped seeing anyone else. I had decided that Mike was “the one.” Only one problem left with this relationship: I was the only one in it! Mike was still sowing wild oats.
But back to Dom….ahhh, Dom….with dangling leg straps.
I couldn’t let him jump from a plane looking like that now, could I? So I tightened up those leg straps, hooked that chest strap, (went to the store about 6 times in a row), and helped him put his helmet on.
“Follow me, Dom.”
And follow me he did – for the rest of the weekend! I had him eating dirt while jumping off the platform doing practice landings, and he fed me chocolate. He told me of his home in Italy, and I told him emergency procedures. I showed him how to pack a parachute, and he showed me his 6-pack abs. Before I knew it, it was Sunday afternoon, and time for him to shum –err - jump.
“Shjayne…”
“Sorry, Dom? Did you say something?”
“Shjayne….I’m a, how you say? Leetle nervous. Ah, maybe you can-a stand where I land, no?”
So, I stood where he would land. And land he did. Lordy, lordy with those beautiful arms (not to mention abs and thighs) he hugged me and whispered, “Shjayne. I would-a like to see you, yes? Maybe dinner, say, tomorrow in town, no? Here is-a where I am staying. Please say you’ll come?”
So fast forward to the next day. I went through the day on auto-pilot – just waiting for the five-o’clock whistle to blow, so I could too! Damn the torpedoes, and relationship be damned! I was tired of the double standard! I was going to eat Italian!! I threw open the door, stepped into the parking lot, strode confidently towards my car, gave a defiant tilt of my chin to Mike –
“Err -- Mike!?! What are you doing here?”
“Hey sweetheart. I—ahh—I thought you’d like to go to dinner. With me.”
Dinner with Mike?
Dinner with Dom?
Stay the course, or jump ship?
I could almost hear the Clash singing: “Come on and let me know: Should I stay or should I go?”
Argh, no time for the indecision that was bugging me. I had to choose.
And I chose Mike.
So, in hindsight, there was one major crossroad in my life: I chose to stay with Mike. Would I go back and take that other branch, knowing what I do now?
Probably not…..
But oh Lordy, lordy, do I remember those abs….and eyes…..and mercy me, those thighs…
So of course, since my (current) philosophy is “rules, schmules, we don’t need no stinking rules!” I decided, “What the heck. How about writing about a moment in your life that only in hindsight, do you realize was a crossroads?” You know, those seemingly (at the time) inconsequential moments that you look back on and say, “Hey! What if I had done ‘x’ instead of ‘y’?” What if I had stayed in Nebraska? What if I didn’t start skydiving? What if? One of my favorite whatifs, is Dominic.
Ah…..Dominic. Dom was Italian, and spoke little English. He came out to the drop zone one Saturday morning with (I think) his cousin. He wanted to, “how-a you say? I-a, wan to-a shjump from plane, yes?”
Geez, one look at his bod, and I just wanted to bounce on his abs….seriously.
But what was I thinking? I was “in a relationship” with Mike. I had to stop looking at those abs….those eyes…..dear lord those thighs….. And yet, there stood Dom in front of me, chest and leg straps undone.
“AirplaneShjayne. You-a help me, yes?”
Stop staring Shjay—jayne! Think about Mike! Your relationship! What relationship? More like a joke! Oh yeah, I was in a relationship. I had stopped seeing anyone else. I had decided that Mike was “the one.” Only one problem left with this relationship: I was the only one in it! Mike was still sowing wild oats.
But back to Dom….ahhh, Dom….with dangling leg straps.
I couldn’t let him jump from a plane looking like that now, could I? So I tightened up those leg straps, hooked that chest strap, (went to the store about 6 times in a row), and helped him put his helmet on.
“Follow me, Dom.”
And follow me he did – for the rest of the weekend! I had him eating dirt while jumping off the platform doing practice landings, and he fed me chocolate. He told me of his home in Italy, and I told him emergency procedures. I showed him how to pack a parachute, and he showed me his 6-pack abs. Before I knew it, it was Sunday afternoon, and time for him to shum –err - jump.
“Shjayne…”
“Sorry, Dom? Did you say something?”
“Shjayne….I’m a, how you say? Leetle nervous. Ah, maybe you can-a stand where I land, no?”
So, I stood where he would land. And land he did. Lordy, lordy with those beautiful arms (not to mention abs and thighs) he hugged me and whispered, “Shjayne. I would-a like to see you, yes? Maybe dinner, say, tomorrow in town, no? Here is-a where I am staying. Please say you’ll come?”
So fast forward to the next day. I went through the day on auto-pilot – just waiting for the five-o’clock whistle to blow, so I could too! Damn the torpedoes, and relationship be damned! I was tired of the double standard! I was going to eat Italian!! I threw open the door, stepped into the parking lot, strode confidently towards my car, gave a defiant tilt of my chin to Mike –
“Err -- Mike!?! What are you doing here?”
“Hey sweetheart. I—ahh—I thought you’d like to go to dinner. With me.”
Dinner with Mike?
Dinner with Dom?
Stay the course, or jump ship?
I could almost hear the Clash singing: “Come on and let me know: Should I stay or should I go?”
Argh, no time for the indecision that was bugging me. I had to choose.
And I chose Mike.
So, in hindsight, there was one major crossroad in my life: I chose to stay with Mike. Would I go back and take that other branch, knowing what I do now?
Probably not…..
But oh Lordy, lordy, do I remember those abs….and eyes…..and mercy me, those thighs…
skydiving big
picture taken after "big accident." That's me in the tan jumpsuit with the red helmet. Here are the four most common questions I ever got about skydiving....and my answers:
Q: Why would anyone jump from a perfectly good airplane?
A: There is no such thing as a perfectly good airplane. Especially a “jump plane”
Q: How come you started skydiving?
A: Cause I wanted to fly. And meet guys.
Q: If I go up in the plane to watch the skydivers jump, and there’s an emergency,
how will I know if I have to jump or not?
A: If the pilot goes out the door, I advise you to follow him.
Q: I went on that parachute ride at 6 Flags, and it made me sick. Does it really feel
like that?
A: No – I hate that ride at 6 Flags – makes me wanna vomit.
There is no feel of falling in freefall – I always liked calling it “freeflying,” cause I don’t like falling! But there is no feel of “falling” not like when you jump out of a tree or off of a roof (yup, did both). In freefall, you’re too high up, too far from anything big enough for you to register movement against. Hmmmm…..still confused, eh?
Okay, time for another APj stroll – or in this case – fly, down memory lane:
I was very excited as the plane climbed: they were going to let me “close” last. Since there were only a handful of us women on the drop zone, we often became a novelty – “Just go out there and hold a heading. We’ll fly to you,” was the norm. But the four of them were going out first (2 on on the strut, 2 on the step) and I was gonna “bombout” the door. Cool!!!!
So we’re on jumprun, everybody is climbing out and into position, “Eat, Fuck, Skydive!” (Hey, its’ more clever than 1-2-3-go!), and off they went.
And the plane lurched a bit.
--and I lost my balance
--and fell back in the plane
--just a little bit.
But enough to put me REALLY far away by the time I recovered!!!! “Shit!! I’ll never catch em!” I berated myself. Pulling my arms in, and streamlining my body, I became a bullet in the sky. I was screaming through the sky at 120MPH. “Hmmm, maybe I’ll catch them after all…..”
Quickly, I saw that I was approaching the now-completed four-way. But I couldn’t believe what I saw. “Shit! Why are they spinning?” How could they do this to me? How am I supposed to dock if they won’t stop spin—“
About 20-30 feet away, I realize that --
I am flying at 120MPH towards them.
As a screaming corkscrew.
THEY are not the ones spinning.
The spinner is ME.
I frantically “get big” to slow my speed and stop my spiral. I slide 180degrees around the circle. And dock.
We smile, kiss pass (yup, just like it sounds), wave off, track away and pull.
On the ground, one of the SkyGods came over grinning and waving, “AirplaneJayne! Bitchin’ approach! You looked so hot!!””
Uh-huh. I never did tell him that I didn’t mean to do it. Why spoil a good thing?
truth or dare
uh-huh, I said Truth-or-Dare -- see why the young-uns luv me?
I picked truth. I picked truth, 'cause the dares (so far) had consisted of singing from the outhouse, using someone else's toothbrush, eating 16 marshmallows, and witnessing to strangers from other campsites....
Yeah, I picked truth (big deal. like you didn't already know I was a big woosie, eh?)
"Teacher Jayne -- tell us about your most un-Christian moment."
Well....it is a church group....and a youth group at that, so I tried to think of something "lessoney." You know -- something that taught by example. In light of that, I shared about moving out to California at nineteen, and alienating myself from my mom for a year.
"Geez, Teacher Jayne," lamented one of the other adults, "I was expecting something better from you...."
::Jayne wipes hands on concrete/dirt/mexico-stained jeans:: "Okay....okay -- here ya go:"
I remember seeing the ground rush towards me, and thinking, "Dang! This is gonna hurt like a fothermucker!" I tried to get my body straight -- straight as I could, and stiffened for the impact.
I remember seeing the ground rush towards me, and thinking, "Dang! This is gonna hurt like a fothermucker!" I tried to get my body straight -- straight as I could, and stiffened for the impact.
Witnesses say I bounced three times. I vividly remember the first hit, and maybe the second. But then I just remember sitting up, and pulling my parachute under my bum, so I wouldn't get dragged away.
Brain: move left arm
::left arm moves:
Brain: good! move right arm
Brain: move left arm
::left arm moves:
Brain: good! move right arm::right arm moves::
Brain: great! move left leg
Brain: great! move left leg
::left leg moves::
Brain: awesome! move right leg
::nada ::
Brain: aw, hell! Right leg! Move!
::nada::
::nada::
Brain: Must be my knee..
About this time, I found myself surrounded by all my skydivin' buddies.
"APj!" inquired Andy (an EMT), "Are you okay? Where do you hurt?"
"Andy, I'm okay -- but I think I blew out my knee. I can't move my leg"
Andy picks up my right leg......
and that's when my femur hit the skin -- and I....I began speaking in tongues!
"Sonofafuckingtruckingdrivingbastardcheatingbitchlickingshiteatingmotherfucker!" I screamed. (Hey....my mother always said if you're gonna do it, at least make it effective....)
Andy carefully laid my leg down, and when to get supplies other than bandaids....
I, never being one to know when to stop, proceeded with my verbal diatribe, "AsswipingmotherbitchbastardsonofaDONUTFUCKERgawd--"
Somewhere in the middle of this verbal assault, the group that we shared the dropzone with came up to me. Uhhh... the Christian Skydiving Team.......who were already flinching at the hellaciousness spewing forth from my lips. (I'm sure I saw one visibly shaking, and another making the sign of the cross)
"Jayne.....Jayne.....we just want you to know.....that we're praying for you."
"Praying!?!?!?!?" I retorted, "PRAYING.....for ME!?!?!?!?!?"
::here it comes.....Teacher Jayne's most Un-Christian Moment......::
"DONTCHA THINK THE FUCKING TIME FOR FUCKING PRAYER WAS, LIKE FUCKING TEN FUCKING MINUTES AGO!?!?!?!? THANKS A-FUCKING LOT!!!!"
::hangs head in shame::
Amen
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