A matter of gravity
There’s something about falling when you get older. It’s a warning bell to your doctor, scanning the horizon for signs of decline; on the forms you fill out for an annual physical, there’s a question about falls. Even the ones that are matters of contact/gravitational inevitability- slipping on a recently cleaned floor while wearing overlong baggy jeans, for example- start feeling like they wouldn’t have happened if you were younger and more spritely. You panic, is this how it ends? After Googling hit back of head on a hardwood floor am I okay? you get maybe, maybe not.
You are grateful you weren’t holding a baby. You are grateful you didn’t break a hip. You are furious and embarrassed. I mean, what the actual fuck, life?
All of this drama is a lot to hold simultaneously.
Fine, it was me, and it’s been 36 hours. I’m physically all right; in fact, I just went for a run. All that lingers is a sore butt cheek, a slight headache, and a fresh feeling of vulnerability. A dear, wise friend told me to pay attention to my body’s changes, to be gentle with myself. She’s right, of course. The only answer to this clumsy business is unconditional grace.
The fall comment struck me first as random- why would my doc care if I fell? Then I realized, as you did. And yes, let's do this with grace!
I’m so happy to hear that you’re okay, Laura! I recall wondering why medical professionals had begun asking me if I had had any falls, then I remembered my age. I agree with you. Let’s try to do this aging thing gracefully.