Falling. It used to be that when I heard that word, I thought of falling in love, the sweet and startling surprise of feeling suddenly struck by the delights of a new person dropping into my life. Falling in love is a delicious process; don’t we all have fond memories of falling?
Falling. This word also brings to mind the wretched experiences of falling for a ruse, for the line of a pretender or a prevaricator, for a scheme or a dream that I so want to believe in that I set aside logic or reason or common sense that usually governs my choices, my actions, my contingency planning — signs of my good judgment. We all have moments when we fall for the proposition or the possibility of something we desperately desire. When we find ourselves disappointed in the aftermath, we search for lessons, then bravely trot them out in public. We confide our sorrows only to our closest friends or an anonymous virtual page. We try not to repeat our mistakes.
*
Falling. Falling down. The fear of hitting bottom. The pain of it, the embarrassment, the effort in getting up, crawling out, standing tall. Falling down is commonplace. Falling down again and again, into a deeper and darker well — this, we only whisper, we choose to abbreviate, we paper over to cover the indelible marks, the scarring, the fissures. This falling seems to be the state in which I find myself, not a freefall that offers another set of sensations entirely, but more of a hard crash into the ground, like a beating, over and over, each time more absurd, more troublesome, more tiring. The real fatigue lies in the accumulation of many small instances of falling.
I liken this plummeting to more lateral encounters — careening a car into downed trees, crumbling walls, construction barriers in one’s path. But this falling is far less spectacular, subject to gravity’s pull with its ungenerous meeting of flesh and floor or flesh and pavement that leaves me bruised and bloodied and almost always blaming myself, though as often as not, there is no blame. Accidents happen. The best laid plans go awry. We are not in control of all that we imagine.
I am speaking literally. I am speaking metaphorically. When we fall, we pick ourselves up, don’t we? And if we’re lucky, there are others around to offer a sturdy helping hand.
*
Although I continue to pick myself up, spiraling downward is depleting. Facing a daily onslaught of obstacles is wearing. Deceits and disappointments shred our trust; we lick our wounds and give them time to heal. Cuts and bruises and sprains require hands, preferably skillful and caring, to unpeel Band-Aids from their waxy wrappers, to place them precisely where they belong, to unfurl stretchy bandages, to wind them around screeching joints and ligaments, to exchange an empathetic or at least a sympathetic look that offers or accepts: It will get better, it will get better, I promise you, it will get better.
These days, I would take the deceits and disappointments over the physical “inconveniences” that keep me shut in, slowed down, and frustrated by the simplest tasks: taking the cap off the toothpaste (requiring the assist of my right armpit), squeezing the toothpaste with my weak and numbed left hand, brushing my teeth left-handed (like a drunkard!), washing dishes (impossible), opening a container of Advil (armpit assist), opening any container at all (armpit again); placing a filter into the coffeemaker and pouring in grounds then tamping them down (messy, left-handed), lifting a small pitcher of water — filling it first — to empty into the coffeemaker (yes, slow, shaky, tentative, sloshing).
I haven’t worried about trying to shower just yet (isn’t that what perfume is for?); I am focused on managing my bra (a neighbor helped with the hooks this morning — Hello, lovely to meet you, would you hook my bra?), zipping my jeans (she did that too), and slithering into a long-sleeve shirt and sweater (hooray! I did it myself!), which is less of an issue. Then there is the night — sleeping was already a challenge with the bad back, frozen shoulder and wonky hand, but now sleeping is raised to battleground status; in any position I try — left side, right side, stomach, back, even weirdly pretzeled, limbs dangling off the edge of the mattress — some body part painfully rebels.
*
Falling in love. How long has it been for you? If you are wondering how long it has been for me, I am unsure. My lack of certitude is due to my own definition of love; I thought I was falling in love, briefly, several years ago, but it turned out to be a different sort of falling. Falling for a line. And that particular fall had terrible consequences, ultimately with repercussions that continue to do damage. I learned quite a lesson. One that left me more vulnerable. One that left me toughened up.
I tell myself that loving is never a mistake, at least it is never a total mistake; the tenderness that reveals itself when we love deeply is a precious commodity. The selflessness we rediscover reminds us that our better angels are easily accessible. Our exuberance, whether we openly display it or not, reminds us that joy is not necessarily done with us. Loving allows us to cherish the sweetest parts of ourselves that we cling to in our secret, wistful, wanting hearts.
*
Falling for a line or a ruse or what we want to believe… Now that’s a tricky item. Don’t we all need to believe in a dream at times? It may be a dream closely held since childhood. It may be the dream of a new life with a new person, or new life breathed into the relationship we are already living. All too recently I found myself falling for an implicit promise, falling foolishly, believing because of an investment in time and caring and hoping that second chances would offer real change. I believe in change, in people capable of change; sometimes, we fall for the appearance of change, and when we see we are wrong, the smart thing to do is to cut our losses and aim for a course correction. In recent history, this sort of falling has also cost me, dearly.
*
To the extent that it is possible, I have raised my walls and thickened them with every material I can find: mud, grout, twigs, trash. I have become the mother bird to myself, crafting a sturdy nest in each new season with whatever I can forage. I will not fall in love again, if ever, certainly not easily; I will not fall for a line or a ruse or a dream that is more a matter of wishful thinking than evidentiary reality.
*
Falling down. I am so tired of it. Even though I may not be falling from a great height, I am carrying the scars and the consequences. Physically. Financially.
Now, my latest conspiratorial collision with an upstart city sidewalk occurred just yesterday. Let me specify that I am using voice recognition to write this post, with limited ability to edit courtesy of left-handed fingertips — (I am right-handed) — after said voice recognition garbles both spelling and phrasing. So please be kind in assessing my skills in stringing sentences together. Incidentally, I do not find speaking into a device a natural way to write; I am forced to communicate from a greater distance than I like, and my style becomes more formal, more academic, more stilted. To be clear, given the injuries and their complications that I have dealt with in the past few years, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to speak my written words. And sprained wrist aside, I doubt it will be the last.
As for yesterday’s incident, it took place just before noon when I bundled myself up and decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. Determined to restart my healthy eating regimen – I have gone astray more often than not this winter — I was looking forward to a leafy spinach and kale salad with grilled chicken, the brisk walk to get there, the jaunty walk home, the tactile and tasty pleasure of my take-out at the kitchen table followed by a series of other errands I planned to do on foot in the afternoon.
The mention of “on foot” is relevant. I have been unable to drive for going on three months, but consider myself fortunate to be renting in an area where most things are within a one to two mile walk. Setting forth with purpose and gusto (after procrastinating for days) — how could I predict that a precocious piece of protruding concrete had other ideas? Oh, the vexation of being thwarted! Not even two blocks into my walk, I went flying over aforementioned protrusion and fell — hard — noting in the process (as I have in the past) how strange the experience of falling is: Time truly does seem to slow, you are fully aware of your powerlessness to stop the fall, yet somehow from a deeply protective place, you raise your arms to shield your head or your face and then you feel the full brunt of the landing, usually a one-two punch of body parts or a series of rapid-fire blows, first the knee on something sharp on one side of the body, followed by an elbow and an arm and a wrist and a hand all striking hard, and then with slightly lesser force and to a lesser degree, the other elbow and wrist and hand.
Stunned, you stay put. You try to determine how bad things are, and gingerly, instead of lying sprawled on the sidewalk, you attempt to sit up. As you realize that you can’t feel a great deal specifically — given that you are still a bit in shock from the impact and grateful that you don’t actually have that far to fall (being short) — you remain where you are, even as embarrassment begins to take hold. Rolling to a sitting position was one thing; standing will be quite another. There are too many body parts required to get up and pain is beginning to flood the zone.
To your surprise, a young woman stops while you are sitting, still dazed, on the sidewalk. You feel thumping and burning in one knee, the left, and your right elbow and right wrist and right hand. The young woman bends down and asks, Are you alright? Can I help you?
Then she says, Maybe you should sit there on the wall, and as she says it, you put your weight on the heel of one hand, the one that didn’t hit the pavement but that is still suffering its jolts and stabs from three months back, you pull forward the knee that isn’t throbbing and tuck it beneath you to balance yourself, then you find partial footing and you push your way up enough to park your padded derrière on a low wall that runs alongside the walk.
*
Did you notice how I changed the point of view? POV is the writer’s wily friend, too often ignored. How blithely I switch from the first person singular, I, to the second person, singular or plural, you. Grant me this indulgence; it enables me to distance myself from this incident, from this ludicrous limbo in which I exist, from how ridiculous a figure I have become to myself, from this series of mishaps that take their toll; this distance I am maintaining in the entirety of this ramble, intentionally, because I cannot allow myself to feel too much of the downward trend that seems to be the theme of my past four years that followed an already dangerously downward trend. Note: These remarks sound self-pitying, self-centered, small; pointless to the outside observer (and likewise to my inner critic) though this is very much my lived truth and the lived truth of too many people I know, however peripherally.
We all have troubles and we have ways we deal — a great read, a favorite symphony, a child’s laughter, a neighbor’s kindness, Reality TV, the first patches of crocus in spring — punctuation to break the darker moods, gifts to bring real and significant solace, to get us through.
*
The goal: With emotional distance, I can still feed myself a line, a dream, a scheme — yes, the very elements of the second kind of falling I described. In this case, I need to fall for my own lines and dreams and schemes, and label them all the building blocks of hope — hope that I will keep at a distance so that I may function. So bear with me as I step away from me and toward you, however clumsily, attempting to “universalize“ through “you” as follows: your clash of knees and elbows and wrists and hands with concrete, the bruises and blood and sprains that result, and the irritation and inconvenience and frustration and yes, tears, but not in front of the stranger, only later, that inevitably flow because, well, they must.
After you pick yourself up, perched on a wall, you use your compromised left hand to take off your sunglasses and look up at the woman; she is young, in her 20s, perhaps a graduate student. You tell her again that you’re OK, unwilling to be more humiliated, to look more foolish, to sob in front of a stranger, however kind. You say that you’re OK out loud in part to reassure yourself and in part because you want her now to just walk away. And so you thank her for stopping and she walks away. And you are relieved.
You limp back to your place, eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of you lest another impertinent root or broken piece of concrete wreak its mischief, and when you reach your apartment as you try to put your key in the lock your right hand screams and you’re stumped. No use of the right hand and only partial use of the left. Now what?
Hell, anyone who has ever given birth can deal with a bit of pain, right? So despite the screaming wrist and throbbing palm you make your way through two deadbolts and two heavy doors into your front hall.
Next task: how to unbutton your jeans, undo the zipper, and drop trou. Let’s just say – it’s a slow process. And, as expected: one bluish, bloody knee to tend.
You make your way to the kitchenette, open the door to the small freezer, and discover that your ice trays are empty, but frankly, frozen peas and dinner rolls work just as well.
*
Cutting to the chase: hobbling, cursing, crying, the inability to tear off a damn piece of toilet paper to blow your runny nose; more crying and more cursing when you can’t open the container of Advil; the eventual collapse into a big chair with an old ottoman pushed close where you seat yourself, half undressed, leg raised, rather comically balancing frozen foods on an assortment of tender spots and a now-bandaged knee, wrist, and hand while talking this nonsensical nothing little tale into an iPhone.
You ponder Murphy’s Law. You think about the occasions on which it visited, repeatedly, over the past 20 years. You wonder why it doesn’t visit elsewhere — maybe a place with chic plush sofas and better snacks. Still, you count your blessings because you are convinced that no bones were broken in your fall. And we all fall down, don’t we? Perhaps without the gleeful grace of Ring Around the Rosy, but isn’t our mettle proven in getting back up?
*
Eventually you manage to open the Advil, swallow two tablets, and put all your tiny troubles into context, contenting yourself with the way Cascadian Farm Organic Sweet Peas accommodate themselves to the contours of your left knee, your right elbow, your right wrist, the side of your right hand, and then happily return to your pesky knee. Frozen peas are an impressive foodstuff that I doubt I will ever consume. Instead, they remain a critical staple in my home-healthcare first-aid kit.
*
There are other types of falling of course, types of falling that are far more poetic than those I mention and rarely take a troubling turn; don’t we revel in the first falling leaves of autumn and falling snow in the earliest days of winter? There are more damning notions of falling as well: a falling stock market (if you are fortunate enough to be invested), or falling temperatures (if you are unfortunate enough to live on the streets or in a place where you cannot afford the heat). One day after this reminder of vulnerability, of how easy it is to fall down, of all that we take for granted (like two working hands), of what life alone truly entails (and how much I already miss flossing), I prefer to think about the little restaurant that was my destination yesterday just before noon. A few hours after my confrontation with concrete, Band-aided and bound and icing with peas and bread, my usual heating pad behind my lower back, I called the restaurant. For a small fee, they deliver. And though I’m slow and awkward using a fork in my left hand, there is nothing like a fresh leafy spinach and kale salad with chicken and a scruffy-haired, bearded, 20-something-year-old man arriving on a bicycle, smiling, as he holds out a late lunch — just for you.
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Ouch! Sending sympathy and strength and patience.
Thank you, Frances.
Oh, DA. This has definitely been a shitty time for you. Pardon the profanity. I’d say worse, but I’m sure you’ve already used all those words when trying to eat your soup, or get the cover off a bottle of ibuprofen. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this.
My sister who suffers from arthritis, and has one foot that is numb most of the time has fallen a lot in the past few years. When she’s tired, walking home, and a sidewalk crack that she didn’t see confronts her, it always wins. Her back is so bad she can’t catch herself and prevent the fall. And like you she wants to yell, but really doesn’t want anyone to notice that she fell. Just wants to get up somehow… and get home… somehow.
Hope the warm sun and a little spring lifts your spirits… a little.
Yup. (Sigh.) But spring always helps.
Well for some, hope is just the last demon in Pandora’s box. Some silly hopes that come too easy probably qualify as just another demon, and just another delusion.
But there are also traditions that say hope is a virtue (as in “hope, faith and charity”). A virtue as in, it doesn’t come easy, it’s effort-full. So maybe that is what it takes to hold on to hope, hope for ourselves maybe, and sometimes for the world these days.
And yes you deserve a break (not a fall) from bad luck!
I am sorry that the outing definitely didn’t go as you had planned and sorry for the pain and injury that type of falling into the pull of gravity often brings, D.A.
Very articulate on all types of my own thoughts when I hear the word “falling”! And I too have experienced them all as you describe. I spent all yesterday in bed endlessly crying, whaling type crying. The depression hit like a ton of bricks and the exhaustion from anxiety just overwhelmed to the point that I needed to release those toxins into the form of tears. I needed to express my feelings and allow myself the space for my emotions.
Late afternoon, I pulled myself up; and then carried my 13yo dog, who has been struggling with blindness and newly diagnosed dementia (yep, doggie dementia) into the shower for a weekly shampoo. That physical challenge is difficult at my age. But it got me up, going, moving, thinking of something other then my longer term, more painful, frightful situation that there is really no good solution. It’s falling, for sure. So much is out of our control.
I was glad to hear you finding relief TV bingeing and thought it might help with your body needing the rest and time to heal. It took a lot of energy to get yourself outside on a walk to pick up lunch, only to be bombarded by that darn cement! Rest with an ice pack of peas, binge TV, and then try again. We are doing the best that we can!
I am in awe of the fact that you brought this challenging situation to a close on such a wonderful note! Kudos to you for your tenaciousness in finding a way to finally have your lunch, and your positivity in enjoying that “scruffy and smiling” means to a well-deserved end.
THIS IS ALL SO HARD FOR ME TO READ!
YOU NEVER GET A BREAK FROM LIFE!!!!!!!
I am SORRY and wish there was something I could do to help YOU!
LEAVE THE CAP OFF THE ADVIL!!!!!!
HUGS, feel better soon!
XX
I’m a new reader so I’m not sure how long you’ve been beaten and battered by life and the depression that inevitably follows, but I’ve been there. Hang on to whatever life rafts come your way. At some point I got worried about me… that my life rafts weren’t doing the job and so I sought help from a counselor I know. Ultimately I decided agains antidepressants… I’m terrified of meds because I’m allergic to most everything. I did listen to Belleruth Naperstek’s Guided Imagery audios, sometimes multiple times a day and in the moments afterward, they helped…. They didn’t make me brand-new but they kept me afloat until things changed. Wishing you spring and healing.
I missed this when I was offline during a relative’s visit. Elizabeth has a great suggestion about leaving the cap off the Advil–I don’t know about you but I suspect I would put the cap back on even though no child has been in our house for a long time. Because…rule follower.
Maybe it’s time to break rules instead of wrists.
Wishing you the very speediest recovery!
For me, it’s the cap on the Tylenol, inevitably in the middle of the night. And the packaging of Sumatran. (How can anyone open that in the throes of a migraine, in the dark, on a plane?)
I’m catching up on your posts (been prepping a house to sell. Yikes, it’s only a week away! This has been the most overwhelming emotional experience of my life) and see that around the same time as your fall, I fell too, well slipped, twice in one day – once in the mud, once on the deck stair – both times came down on the same knee and shin. I still have the scars.
I’m getting ready for a major move. Very emotional, especially when the unexpected turns up. A sort of a fall. All we can do is pick ourselves up and put balm on those wounds and move on.
I’m hoping things get better for you, as I continue to read forward.
Lovely to hear from you, lunaboogie.