Because he had pushed me and I was off-balance, my left—leading—foot went into the gap between the platform and the train. I screamed, loud; in a situation like that, I want people to know there's a crisis. (I want the conductor to know he can't pull out of the station yet, either.) So a few people pulled me to safety—thank you! I staggered over to a bench and sat. A [different] guy had stayed behind, and asked if I was all right. I really was; I really felt all right, and also, I felt embarrassed. I always feel embarrassed when I fall. So I told him I was okay.
I called home and told Richard what had happened, then set off for the M8 crosstown bus. (I had no money on me, or I might have taken a cab. Probably.) My foot and knee were hurting by now, and I decided to take myself to the ER, which wasn't far. I was really lurching along, so if there was a break, I might as well know it and take appropriate action. I transferred to the M15 up First Avenue, and it let me off at 14th street; I lurched the two blocks to the Linsky Pavilion of Beth Israel Medical Center at 1st and 16th, and then had to turn the corner to the ER.
Nice thing about a holiday weekend; there are a lot fewer people around. [See my first-ever post on LJ.] Triage was a breeze, and I went to wait in a little cubicle, and started to make a post, when I was interrupted by a nurse. She needed to see my wristband; I showed her. I had to use the bathroom, so they gave me a pair of yellow size XL socks with non-skid patterns on top and bottom.
(I lost my draft of the LJ post; fuck you, LiveJournal. To tell you the truth, I hate writing posts on my phone anyway.)
The adrenaline! I'm hung-over from the adrenaline; glad today wasn't a day I had to get up early. I'm walking with a cane, because all they gave me was an Ace bandage and a scrip for some ibuprofen. (Fuck you, Beth Israel.) But nothing was broken; I was in worse pain earlier today, and I got through it. Officially speaking, I was discharged with a contusion, and that makes sense. I hate having to do 100 stairs up and down just to get home or leave home. Perversely, they gave me a referral for follow-up to a doctor across town on 23rd street and 7th avenue, so I guess I'm not going to bother with that; I'll do what I did for my other knee: ghetto physical therapy.
And I hate sleeping in my loft bed when I'm so compromised; it feels awkward amd dangerous to be four feet off the ground. (I've always hated my loft bed, but I hate it more when I have trouble getting in and out of it.)
Tomorrow is another day. (I was afraid of that!)