I fell Monday night. I got up. This morning I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have. Everything hurts and my knee is more colorful than the most beautiful rainbow I can no longer see. Which is how I fell. There wasn’t actually a rainbow but a small pile of snow. Which was white, a color I can see. Only I didn’t.
My husband picked up milk on his way home from work so I could finish preparing dinner. He stopped by our house to hand it off then he would head to the gym. I met him out front, got the 1% and turned to make the few steps back to the curb. There was a small leftover pile of snow and I tripped on it and found myself flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The landing? Not so easy. Before I had even hit the sidewalk I was turned enough to see my husband getting out of the car. I made contact with the concrete with both palms, left wrist and knee. I quickly assessed the damage and found myself shaken but unbroken, except for some skin. And my spirit.
I began to cry. I sat on the sidewalk and assured my husband I was ok but everything hurt. The gallon of milk lay on its side a few feet away. I couldn’t stop crying and told him I had to sit there for a few minutes. I couldn’t pull myself together. This is only the second time I’ve fallen in the five years since my vision loss (knocking on dining room table like a woodpecker, I am) and consider myself lucky at that. And truth be told, I’m not entirely sure this tumble was due to my sight. Whatever the cause, the effect was the same: Ouch. They say you only have to get up one more time than you fall to be a success, to get through something difficult. It’s simple math and the honest truth. But it sure felt good to sit on the sidewalk and cry. I finally got up and climbed the 14 stairs to our house, still crying and feeling the sting of the scrapes on my knee and hands. I found myself thinking about Bactine from my childhood of all things.
Two days later I am sore all over. It’s always the second morning that you find out exactly what you’re made of, because you can feel every inch of your aching body. I got back on the proverbial horse today and took my walk around the neighborhood. The irony is not lost on me that I walk 20 miles a week outside for exercise without incident (more knocking and yet I took a misstep right in front of my home. I am happy to report that I wasn’t skittish on my trek this morning and my slowed time was only because of soreness and not fear.
I will no doubt fall again, and I may sit awhile and shed some more tears, but I will always get up. It doesn’t have to be pretty and chances are it’s gonna hurt for days if not weeks, months or even years, but staying in the place where you fall only feels good for so long. After that you’re bruised, snotty and bleeding on a cold sidewalk for all the neighbors to see. Crying over spilt milk.
