Blindsided, I was. One minute, I was so busy patting my own back and vocalizing attaboys to my audience of one (me) as I negotiated a beautiful, pristine DIY raft down a gentle stream, that I failed to notice as the waters became a tiny bit choppy. I was standing on my raft, knees locked, as we are prone to do when we are overconfident. My legs buckled. I felt it in my lower back – that slight twinge. I blamed it on a myriad of things: the tarlov cysts in my sacrum, the osteopenia in my hips, the mature onset scoliosis. The only thing I knew for sure, without doubt, is that the problem was not my raft. I watched so many YouTube videos. I read so many Buzzfeed articles. I am the Mary Ann, after all, not a speck of Ginger Grant in me. Gilligan’s Island voted me most likely to bake the pie, scare away the headhunters, fix the radio, and woo the professor, all in half an hour. The raft I’d expertly crafted was unsinkable. Yet, it began to careen toward the left bank. Next, it struck a wayward log on its rapid shift toward the right bank. I sat down, hard. The rope I’d used to secure my oars snapped like a used hair tie on a too thick ponytail. Foamy, cold water splashed onto my legs, soaking my shoes. I looked up to a vision of howling winds, breaking branches, and an angry, navy blue sky. “I don’t even recognize this landscape,” I screamed, internally. “What has become of me? This was supposed to happen differently. It wasn’t supposed to be this way at all!” It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a river rapid vacation gone wrong. It’s just snippet of the basic feel of my life as an almost 55-year-old orphan.