After a week of mixed precipitation, the weather was foretasted to be nearly fifty, and I was excited. I'd told my friend I'd help him move from his house, and despite slipping all over the sidewalks, trudging through snow and ice for hours, I didn't fell down a single time.
Later in the afternoon, I decided that it was time to get my own mail, so I slipped on shoes from near the front door, walked outside in my t-shirt as it felt like it was so much warmer and smiled. I took a step to the edge of the porch, then another onto the concrete step below. That was it--my heel slipped on the ice and I went flying though the air, my back landing solidly on the lower concrete step just moments before my rump hit the sidewalk.
It was all I could do to climb back up the stairs, into the house, and collapse on the sofa. The pain was incredible. After a minute or so, I realized that I had largely had the wind knocked out of me, so I stood up and started to take stock of myself. My back was throbbing, and I glanced at my burning hand, finding that there were some flaps of skin.
I sent my wife for antibiotic and then went to the sink to wash. Painfully, I made it there and started to wash and dry before I realized that my forearm must also have skidded across the icy concrete as it was covered in abrasions. Rewashing everything, applying antibiotic, and a band-aid to the hand, I decided I needed to find some rest and try to let the pain pass.
Over the next thirty or forty minutes I tried a variety of positions and chairs, but ended up taking some ibuprofen, and heading to the hottest shower I could stand. My wife helped me out through the evening like a champ.