As usual, I was obsessing over ridiculously mundane things I term “First World Problems.”
- Lack of response from two companies I had contacted about screening in our back porch
- How long our unseasonably warm weather would drag on so I could stop the daily watering of my outside plants? (Poor me. Life with sunny bright skies, accompanied by temperatures in the low 80’s, can be so arduous in winter.)
- Why the scale wasn’t budging when I was exercising more and eating way less – except for a few individually wrapped caramels (about seven) I popped into my mouth throughout the day – adding up to a mere 160 calories.
And then one night – close to 1AM – I was given a not-so-gentle reminder of the fragility of life and all we hold dear. And so often take for granted.
I had been sitting on the couch watching the series “Anne With an E,” which was simply mesmerizing. As usual, too restless to have my hands idle, I was also rhythmically knitting a simply-patterned afghan. Deciding I was too drowsy to continue, I folded up my knitting, pressed the remote to turn-off the TV and heaved my body from the couch.
I didn’t stay upright for long. Within seconds, I was sprawled on the floor in a crumpled heap – watching with horror as a golf ball size lump kept protruding further and further out from my left ankle.
What propelled me to the floor? A dizzy spell? A stroke? A seizure? Confronted with the unknowing, I did what I usually do in times of peril: I started to cry. And I wondered where in the hell my husband was.
I surmised that my left foot had fallen asleep – collapsing in on itself when I took the first step away from my seated position. And my right leg – ruffled with arthritis – couldn’t keep me upright. And I further surmised that my husband was slumbering peacefully upstairs. Immobilized, with heart-racing alacrity, I searched for my cell phone. It was nowhere in sight.
Realizing I had already plugged it in to re-charge on the kitchen counter, I scooted myself on the wood floor into the kitchen and yanked the phone from the charger. Geez. My nightgown looked like I had fallen into a dumpster. When was the last time I actually washed the floors?
What followed was pretty typical: a mad scramble to figure out how to get me into the car without putting any weight on my left leg, a rushed ride to the ER, X-rays, and probing and prodding by the ER doc. My fears were confirmed: a chipped ankle bone and torn tendons and ligaments. Forget the eclectic turquoise boots I had just splurged on. I’d be wearing a big black ugly boot as I clumsily propelled myself forward with the aid of crutches. For up to three months.
In fairness, I took the injury in stride – most of the time. Well, some of the time. I could have been in far worse shape had I crashed into the glass coffee table just inches away from where I fell. Or injured my right foot and been kept from driving altogether.
In fairness, I went more existential. The definition of an accident is an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, typically resulting in damage or injury. What struck me was the nature of an accident itself – a misfortune, a misadventure, a mischance. How random our fates – how little control we actually have when an accident occurs.
I would always scoff at people’s reactions to a mishap when they clucked the obvious: “It could always be worse.” I now take comfort in that trite reminder. Every day incidentals that aggravate and annoy are so readily dismissed when health and well-being threaten our lives and our lifestyles.
My accident was a gentle reminder to:
- Heighten my awareness of each moment of daily pleasure
- Be mindful of capriciousts of fate
- Keep my cell phone in close proximity
- And value the presence of a man in my life who performs like a gallant Prince Charming – even in the middle of the night – adorned in a rumpled undershirt, unshaven, with hair sticking up all over his head.
Hugs,
Iris