It is frightening, losing one’s balance. The tottering itself is alarming enough as is the resulting injury. Worse is the recovery that will take twice as long as if I were 50, if indeed I recover completely. Ever aware of the threat of injury, I tread slowly. Thus, tripping on what appeared to be level concrete on the San Diego promenade caught me off guard. I toppled avoiding inelegant stumbling but landed flat on my face. Yes, flat on my face, arms at right angles as if in a “stick-em-up,” legs extended. Like the Nestea plunge but prone. And no pool. My imagination pictured total incapacitation before I uttered a simple “crap.”
I affirmed my nose had borne the brunt, protecting my forehead and mouth from direct contact with the pavement. My eyeglasses were sure to be scratched on the lower ridge having scraped the hard surface as they pressed into my cheek. Falling flat as I did, my knees were safe. I had no time to extend my arms, avoiding wrist sprains. I could move hands, legs, roll over, and sit up. Mike offered a shirt to curtail the blood spewing from my nose. Many people stopped to offer aid, including Marriott security who cleaned and salved the abrasions and assured me cheerfully they would inform the city of the uneven surface. It was not on their property, i.e. not their responsibility.
Over the next few days, a pulled muscle in my side become a bigger problem than the sore nose and black eyes, inhibiting my breathing to the extent I couldn’t talk. Hours in the vinyl ED waiting room chair added to my discomfort as I observed the chaos of US health care, aides shouting names into the crowd of elderly people, most of them probably hard of hearing. The CT scan revealed no major injury to organs, bones, or brain. Kidney disease limits my pain control to Acetaminophin (Tylenol). The sympathetic doctor (resident?) prescribed pain patches. Unfortunately, pharmacies were closed. At home I teased death and took two ibuprofen to get a few hours of sleep. I have recovered 98%.
Two weeks later, the nose piece on my eyeglasses broke in half at a rehearsal. A friend alerted Mike to drive me home. A previous repair had introduced me to a local eyeglass repair shop, and the repair was completed the next morning. Two days later, on a Sunday morn before my church music gig, I discovered my hearing aids had not charged. Interestingly the pastor's dog had chewed one of hers, and the AV tech was having difficulty with his. It was an interesting service. Having no other options, I creeped into Costo two days before Christmas for a hearing aid reset. “Do you have shopping to do while I fix these?” asked the technician. I indicated the warehouse behind me. “In this crowd?”
In the back of my mind is the dental crown awaiting attention in the new year. Plus the five year colonoscopy.
Aging people feel vulnerable because there are so many parts which can go wrong. A friend told me she started each day with, "what part today?" Not just physical. For many years I worked with people experiencing cognitive deficits, coaching them to exercise their memory, attention, executive function, mental flexibility. Now I am lucky to recall my best friend’s name, watch a full-length movie, plan a dinner, or manage to change plans in an instance. Complex instructions need to be repeated slowly. And repeated again midway through the task. However, at a trivia party, I easily recalled that the author of The Night Before Christmas/A Visit from St. Nick was Clement C. Moore. Really?
And noise, visual and aural. The Christmas holiday with the family, all the kids and grandkids, heart-warming but exhausting. The incessant raucous--laughter and voices and clatter--mixed with chaotic movement--people and vehicles and sights--cluttered with the holiday colors and light and texture, tired me as if I had worked on an essay for three hours. At SD’s 50th birthday party, held in a Whirlyball venue, I managed one round of this “team sport that combines elements of basketball, hockey, lacrosse, and bumper cars,” before a headache from the constant jerking and bumping of the car led me to accede my spot to someone younger. Everyone should do it at least one time. It really is fun. As the headache subsided, I wove a cocoon around myself, conversation being difficult to maintain in the venue.
I won’t touch flatulence, weak bladder control, decreased strength and balance, and ear wax in this essay. You all know what I am talking about.
Back to “flat on my face.” I didn’t realize that was a real thing until it happened to me. Usually I stumble, imitating Elaine Benes dance moves, attempting a “controlled fall,” intending to land on a hip. As I lay on the concrete in this instance, flat on my face, arms at right angles, legs extended, I envisioned a frog. Specifically a frog whose short time on this earth approximately 47 years ago ended abruptly under the wheels of a car. A young neighbor boy was playing with the small amphibian when it hopped out of his reach into the road. Little Scott, horrified, peeled the flattened carcass from the pavement as if it were a deflated rubber toy. “My frog,” he whined. On that Friday in San Diego before I had time to contemplate potential incapacitation, I envisioned Scott’s frog. I am evolutionarily regressing. Thankfully I love to swim.
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