Help! I've Fallen... or maybe don't help. Gah! I don't know what to do.

I've avoided this conversation for weeks. This week I needed help, so here it is.

I needed a walker. I knew if I put it on Facebook, someone would surface. That’s one of the best parts of Facebook. People are really helpful. I know when someone posts that they need something I’d be delighted to help if I can. I just knew the same would be true for me. But I avoided my post for weeks. Monday that changed and I got one to borrow. That’s not all I want to say. This ended up being much longer than I had anticipated.

Three weeks ago I was having the first really great day in quite some time. My husband was given his negative test result from COVID. This meant we were nearing the end of our quarantine. Just a couple more days to be safe but we were certain he was fine. For the quarantine, he had been relegated to the second floor and basement. I was managing the kitchen and living on the first floor. He was extremely disappointed to be waited on hand and foot. Not that I do a bad job, mind you, I’m an awesome helpmate. But, because he’d much prefer to be able to function on his own. We are both fiercely independent. Most importantly, however, his lack of access to the kitchen meant a break in routine for him. "You mean, I can't just go grab my *schnibbly throughout the day?" "Nope. Quarantine baby. You gotta protect me too!" He understood. Still, bummer for him. FYI: *Schnibbly is what he calls the nuts, dates and chips he snacks on throughout the day. He's adorable.

Anyway, I was headed down the stairs when I noticed a Blue Jay was at my newly placed bird feeder. There's a window at the bottom of our stairway leading from the main floor to second. I was delighted at the sight of the bird and completely distracted. I thought I was at the bottom step. I was not. I was third from bottom. I stepped out and my dear, sweet ankle couldn't handle the weight of the fall. It twisted left and right before dropping me to the floor. I cussed like a sailor, threw off my shoe as quickly as I could and yelled for Fred, who was already bounding towards me.

There we were, face to face, maskless, for the first time in over a week. I asked him to bring me an ice pack. “Asked?” Wait. Not that. I’m sure it was more of a scream. “Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God! I need ice. Get me ice. Now. Please. Ow. Ow. Ow.” Followed by a few more expletives. Yes, definitely a scream. For the first time in more than a week there the husband was… in the kitchen and in the refrigerator, no less. I was devastated. Fred was elated. Not immediately, of course, but soon. The elation certainly wasn't because I was in pain, but because my accident meant his home quarantine was over. No being waited on. No denial of kitchen access. Complete role reversal in the span of a second.

That happened June 9. No break. Phew! But a torn ligament. No weight bearing for two weeks, the doc said, initially. (He'd add a week later.) A neighbor offered her crutches (so nice) and we rented a knee scooter. The PT recommended a walker next and then a cane. I have a cane. I didn’t have a walker. Why didn't we keep all the old people medical paraphernalia from our parents? We keep kicking ourselves. Admittedly the kicks aren’t as hard as they used to be. There’s been some muscle loss over the years.

That's pretty much the story. So why then does this post get so long? Because I’ve been doing loads of contemplating from the couch where I sit, lay, eat, read, binge and sleep – day after day after day after day committed to R-I-C-E. Thought I’d share some of those observations and questions with you.

First observation. Life can turn on a dime. Of course I knew this, but now I am in it. 2020 has been such an experiment in how to live. For all of us. I recognize now and did so almost immediately that my abrupt change was necessary. I'd been burning the candle at both ends trying to paint and finish a kitchen, create a new garden, clean-up the existing, clear out a basement, organize family photos, organize personal photos, find time to bird, to write, prep for a garage sale, learn to cook loads of new foods and do all the work-related activities I needed to be focusing on including directing an online piece for a local theatre company. Then life said, "Um, no. You've not been centered spiritually. You've not been taking good care of yourself. You haven’t done any self-reflection this whole pandemic, little exercise, etc. despite being given ample time to do so. If you won't do it, then I'm going to do it for you." Then blam! Down I went.

First Question. To ask or not to ask. Right after it happened, I wanted prayers, good juju, happy thoughts sent my way. I’m a firm believer that if you put that good energy towards someone in the world, it can manifest. It’s not an exact science but even the placebo affect makes it worthwhile. I reached out to a few friends, but I didn’t post anything on Facebook. I didn’t want the world to know I was having a problem. That’s not what Facebook is for. (This is something that has been repeatedly reinforced to me by friends and family. And I've said it myself a dozen times.) Still I was torn. I kept this argument going in my head. “Just post about your ankle on Facebook. Ask for some good juju, prayers, thoughts. It’ll help.” And then there was...  “Don’t post anything on Facebook? You want sympathy? For something so miniscule? What’s wrong with you?” More on this in a second.

Second Observation. When given the time for self-reflection, take it.  After I fell, I was engulfed in online news. I mean good God, the world really had gone to hell in a handbasket. I had just started an anti-racism dialogue group and was knee deep in that. I was bingeing on social media and entertainment to avoid the pain. (That sucker hurt!) Plus, who knew that watching people throw water on unsuspecting family members could be so hilarious (Tik Tok anyone?) Ten days after the fact, I realized that more than a week had gone by and I hadn't really done any self-reflection. If the Universe really had just said to me, “slow down and take care of yourself,” then why wasn’t I listening? I hadn't done any writing to speak of. I was irritable. I was stuck. The next day I tried to improve the focus of my meditation. I even did a little spiritual reading. There was certainly no groundswell of change. The next night I was listening to a podcast, heading to the bathroom on crutches, thought I'd pick something up off the floor to throw away, half paying attention, lost my balance and down again I fell. Stepped right on the foot with the injured ankle. Blam!  It happened again.

Second Question. When is bad really bad? As I lay on the floor, I tried to cry. Tried. There wasn’t an immediate flow of tears. The fall wasn’t bad enough. I thought a good cry would make me feel better. But I couldn't cry. Instead I laughed. I laughed at myself for trying to cry. It wasn't that bad, the fall, and somewhere deep inside I knew that. I just wanted to feel sorry for myself.  Right after the second fall, I wanted to send a text to my sister letting her know I fell again. I knew she’d be great on the nurturing response front. But I hesitated. I wanted her compassion, but I didn’t. (see first question) I was embarrassed to want sympathy. I was embarrassed to want others to know that I was hurting. I compromised. I sent a text to my sister, but I went for the laugh. “Can you believe what your idiot sister, just did?” She responded with a kind word. I was so appreciative. Still I knew. Sure, all of this sucks. It does. Not going to deny that. But in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t suck that much.  I mean my friend Kathy has been climbing her way back to health in a rehab facility since February following a heart incident. Racism is rampant. Climate change is killing all of us. Brown children are still in cages. I sprained my ankle. Boo Hoo.

Third question. Even if it's not that bad, can we/should we still ask for help? I’ve discussed just this quite a bit with the same sister in the last few weeks, as well as the hubby and a few friends. What is the balance to recognizing that life is shitty and you’re sad vs. moving on? When do we ask for sympathy or empathy and when do we buck up? There are degrees. Surely. But when I was laying on the floor the second time thinking to myself, “Why can’t I catch a break?” somewhere I knew I’ve been given breaks my whole life. Does that make it not okay to ask for emotional support? This weekend a friend and I were talking about this very thing. He said, “Why is it so easy to ask someone if you can borrow a hammer, but not ask them for a emotional support?” Why is our first instinct when we are having an issue, personal/physical/emotional to beg those in the know “don’t tell anyone.” Why is it so bloody important to hide our challenges? I vividly recall a particular moment upon return from our 20^th Anniversary trip to Italy. A friend saw my pictures on Facebook and asked me how it was. The pics were stunning and she could see it was a remarkable adventure. I told her we had a great time, but my birthday, the 10^th day of the trip, really sucked. She grinned ear to ear and actually chuckled and said, “Thank God!” It’s so nice to see that people don’t live perfect lives.” 

The Conclusion (or non-conclusion.) I still don’t know the formula. All this contemplating hasn’t provided an epiphany. It has given me permission, though, to ask for some good juju, thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery. I’m not sure I’ll post about a personal challenge again. I will write about it though. Maybe I’ll put it on my blog. Maybe I won’t. But I will write about it, because I am a fan of self-reflection. I do want to be the best human I can be and maybe showing my flaws or my challenges more honestly, either with you or simply for myself, can help get me there. Both the doc and the PT told me that the healing process can take up to three months. At least I know I’ll have more time to think about. Maybe I'll have a different response at the end of all this. I'll let you know. Or I won't. I'm just not sure.