It's funny what goes through your mind when you're lying flat out on the floor of the bank that is tucked into a tiny corner of the neighborhood supermarket. My life did not flash before me. I had no concern for broken bones. My only thought was my hair.
     It had been a stressful day. Mondays, the day I finish my column, always are. This particular Monday I had needed a break and left the house to do errands. At the drug store I opened my checkbook to find only deposit slips. My next stop was to be a coffee shop. Not wanting to pay for a latté with plastic, I decided to get some cash from the bank.
     We can always use a few grocery items so I grabbed a shopping cart before standing in line at the bank. When it was my turn to move forward, the wheel of my cart caught on the edge of the metal post that designates the lanes for the tellers. I tried again. Sturdier than it looked, the stanchion pushed my cart towards me. My legs buckled, the cart shot sideways, and I fell backwards. As my head smacked the floor, I didn't hear birdies, just people's voices.
     One said she'd found my driver's license, another offered to retrieve the cart, and a third said an ambulance was on its way. I don't need an ambulance, I wanted to shout. Call for a hairdresser instead. How many people had walked through this bank today? I wondered. How many dirty shoes had stood on the exact spot where my head rested and where had those shoes been? Gas stations, parking lots, barns…the yucky possibilities were endless.
     The next thing I knew, a young man knelt down and told me he would help me up. When I was upright, he held on to my arms until I was steady, then went back to finish his banking transaction.
     "The ambulance will be here any minute," the bank manager said.
     "Cancel the ambulance, please. I am fine.
     "The store manager will be here any minute."
     "No, cancel the store manager. I am not going to sue." (My late father, a personal injury attorney, must have rolled over in his grave at that comment!)
     I just wanted to leave.
     Once home, I held a bag of frozen broccoli to the back of my head, to the bump the size of a corned beef sandwich. I turned the afternoon's events over and over in my mind. If only I'd surveyed the checkbook situation before I left the house. If only I hadn't wanted a latté. If only I hadn't used the shopping cart.
     But then I wouldn't have crossed paths with the woman who found my driver's license and retrieved my purse. Or the bank manager who walked me to my car. Or the bank customer who asked if I was all right to drive home. Or the young man who lifted me to my feet.
     I don't even know their names. I can hear my late mother tsk-tsk. "You didn't get their names and addresses? You should be sending them thank you cards. At the very least." Mom is right.
     Thank you to all the people who took me under their wings that day. Whatever your names, I will always call you angels.