It was about 12am last Wednesday night before I lay down to sleep. My trip was Thursday, the next day. The plane wasn’t due to leave until late afternoon so I’d finish packing and handling last minute details in the morning. I was headed for L.A. for the long awaited interview with Joshua Allen, the winner of season 4 of “So You Think You Can Dance.” These plans have been in the works for a while so lots of people were depending on me to show.

Suddenly at 3am I awoke—a Mother Nature call. Returning to a darkened room, I decided, maybe, I should double-check the alarm that was on a table away from my bed on the other wall. Not that I needed to worry, I had my trusty Blackberry as a back-up but my brain wasn’t working at full capacity. I walked groggy and half asleep in the direction of the clock, forgetting my opened suitcase on the floor directly in my path. Next thing I knew I stubbed both toes into the case and toppled directly down inside. With no light it was impossible to know my left leg was headed straight for disaster. You see, that hard plastic forked-like attachment with the strap that you use to hook one suitcase on top of the other was sitting straight up exposed at the top of my bag. Of course, it was totally dark so as I went to try and break my fall I rammed my leg directly into the 3 points of the pronged end, puncturing first, then scraping second, If that wasn’t enough, as I toppled to the right, the side of my face banged hard into my armoire.

Talk about wake-up—now I’m awake. It’s amazing how quickly we can react when crisis strikes. Within seconds I stumbled to the kitchen and just that quickly my leg had swollen to the size of a softball, blood spurting out from the puncture, skin hanging off the size of my palm from the scrape, the colors of black and blue and red already visible. My Bounty roll of paper towels never came in so handy. I pulled off a long stream and twisted them around and around creating a quick makeshift tourniquet. I thought if I could wrap it tightly around my ankle just below the wound I could stop the bleeding. All the while I plucked a medium sized cold pack from the freezer and slapped it right on top of my shinbone where most of the damage was obvious to help minimize the increased swelling. So there I was—blood everywhere, leg laying open, swelling and bruising already kicking in, and my face, OMG. In a mirror that hangs over the sink, I could see my face and the bruising around my eye orbit all the way into my cheek. But luckily the skin wasn’t broken and I wasn’t bleeding from that area of my body. My leg was the priority. What do I do? Do I call 911? Do I call my neighbor, my sister, my friends? Do I try and drive myself to the hospital? Do I cancel this trip? Is interviewing Joshua worth all this?

I decided I would do none of it and figure it out on my own. So, I did. I stayed up ALL night. With leg elevated, I used towels and icepacks and Neosporin and gauze pads for the swelling and the bleeding and the bruising. I told myself, I wasn’t going to let this accident keep me from the trip. After hours upon hours of nursing the wounds, I finally got the bleeding curtailed and was able to amply wrap it in gauze. But now I had to shower and pack. My ride was coming shortly and I wasn’t ready. I had one hell of a time hobbling around figuring out what I needed to pack that I wouldn’t have needed if not for the fall.

Even my pants were a problem. Every pair I tried grabbed hold of the gauze underneath and dislodged it, opening the wound again. I ended up opting to wear a rather hip pair of black tights that assisted in holding the bandages in place—the perfect solution. Makeup seemed to successfully cover the bruising on my face and the icepacks had worked initially keeping the damage to a minimum—at least for the time being. In the end, I made it to the airport with a little time to spare. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a direct flight. Changing planes is not high on my list of things to do, but the only direct flights left either way too early or way too late. My friend insisted he park his car and escorted me into the airport. He realized I was out of sorts so he figured I could use a drink. Since Carrabbas was conveniently located not far from my gate, he told the waiter to bring me a top-shelf Margarita in hopes it would help calm my nerves for the 2 flights ahead. He said I didn’t look like I felt—which was nice to hear, but his well-meaning compliments didn’t help much. Luckily, Southwest allowed me to board early, before the masses, so I got the best seat in the house for my Tampa to San Antonio leg of the journey.

My seatmate, turned out, was a character named Jason, a.k.a. J-Keeze. He got the biggest kick out of me when he learned my name was Pz and I had a leg I affectionately referred to as my boo boo leg. Ironically, J-Keeze was an ironworker/rapper who was on his way to Texas to sign a record deal. He promised he would write a tune about me –Pz and her boo boo leg, and he’d make sure I’d get credit on the liner notes. It was all in good fun, but J-Keeze seemed unsure of the deal awaiting him, afraid the producers might not give him what he believed he was worth. He promised me he wouldn’t just roll over and if there wasn’t a meeting of the minds he would go back to his life as an ironworker with no regrets. When I changed planes in Texas, J-Keeze was headed off for his date with rap-music destiny. He has my business card, so I’d better hear, eventually, whether his deal went through as he’d hoped or he changed his mind. (One flight down. One to go.)

By the time I got on the next flight the pain and throbbing in both my leg and face were in full swing. Again, I boarded early and was lucky again to get a great seatmate named Beth. Her son sat in the window seat and she was in the middle. She and her 2 sons and husband were on their way home to L.A. from their recent vacation. Beth was originally from the Philippines and came to America some years back with relatives when her parents divorced. We passed the time talking everything from the troubled mortgage crisis—her expertise– to my new book to my impending interview with Joshua to her life in L.A. and how much her family loved living in America. I couldn’t leave out the condition of my leg since it was obvious I was in a bit of discomfort and Beth couldn’t have been more concerned.

Finally, we arrived on time and safely on the ground. Soon we found ourselves at the conveyor belt awaiting our luggage. The black bag that had been the culprit in my accident was the one I had checked in Tampa and had a red handkerchief tied around the handle for easy identification. Hoping it had survived both legs of the flight I stood there with Beth and her family—positioned close to the conveyor among the crowd– holding my breath. (There’s nothing worse than arriving at your destination only to find your luggage didn’t arrive along with you.) Only about 10 minutes passed when the belt starting moving and we were on the lookout. Almost immediately, there it was. Beth’s husband saw the now infamous bag as it appeared, red handkerchief in tact, and quickly snatched it from the moving belt, saving me from having to tax my leg in the retrieval process. He attached my checkered Betsy Johnson carry-on bag to the top of the larger suitcase with that damn attachment that had attacked me only hours before. This way I could easily roll the two and still comfortably carry my purse on my shoulder. Beth, husband and boys, walked with me outside to the cab stand and we said our goodbyes. What a sweet and considerate family, and I felt so lucky to have met them.

When the attendant opened the door for me to enter the cab the driver jumped out and placed my luggage in the trunk. I fumbled in my purse to find a five spot for the doorman and he seemed genuinely surprised when I placed it in his hand for his simple gesture. (I got the impression tipping has fallen off lately, just by the reaction of gratitude I got every time I gave someone some money.) Living in Las Vegas, I’ve always been a big tipper and cognizant that some jobs pay very little and depend on the generosity of others. My cabby was Sasha—a Russian immigrant who had been in the U.S. for about 7 years. His English, although a bit fractured, was good enough for me to communicate. I got the feeling, too, that Sasha understood a lot more than he first led on. I gave him my destination and we were off. He took the best direct path to the hotel and didn’t try to prolong or milk the ride as some cabbies often do. We made a plan that Sasha would come on Sunday morning to pick me up for my return to LAX. He scribbled his name and private cell number on a card and asked that I would check in with him on Saturday to confirm.

When we pulled up at Le Parc Suites we were greeted by a most elegant attendant. I had fifty dollars in my hand when he turned off the meter. As I exited from the cab I showed Sasha the money and inquired was it enough. He seemed more than pleased. I looked at my watch in the bright light streaming from the hotel entrance. It read 9:35pm and I was here. I made it. My body, still on east coast time was beginning to feel the effects of no sleep, but it didn’t matter. I was here and I had until tomorrow to try and rest and regroup for Joshua. Maybe it would all be worth it. Maybe I would be glad I came. I’d have to wait and see…