Photo by Raul Varzar / Unsplash

All I wanted to do was turn around and I got launched

What's the old joke? It's the landings that kill you?

As I push my walker around the house and invite my newly-battered left hip to MOVE in its socket, which is the best way to get a non-broken but sore joint to stay juicy after a good hit, all I could think of was how grateful I was that it was only three steps.

Stairs are the single biggest contributor to falls and accident. My worst injuries have been on stairs or horses. This one?

I was making a decision to go get something in the house. My brain sent a swift text to both feet, both of which are still recovering from major surgery, and neither one of them bothered to read the text. I turned, but my feet stayed pointing the way I was standing, which is what happens sometimes when body parts are in communicado.

So I flew, happily not far, but unhappily, on pebbled concrete. I gave myself a moment, rotated the sore leg to determine the seriousness. No break, but my ego sure is busted. I found some pulled muscles, so got up slowly, located my walker, some ice and some Tiger Balm for later.

I wouldn't tell anyone who isn't a bona fide bleeder to ice a bruise. However, I am a hemophiliac, and my bruises can be so spectacular that I can't get dressed if they are left to blossom to full watermelon proportions. So for the first few minutes, I want to stem part of the flow so that I can function.

The tactic works. I watched the better part of a movie I hadn't planned to watch while the pain subsided, the swelling was controlled and I got up and moved around again, with much more positive results. Still hurts, but I can move.

I don't tend to fall for the reasons most older folks do. Nowadays, the greatest danger to my person is the fact that while I am still recovering from the big surgeries, I can't feel my feet at times. They really do not move when asked, and sometimes they plant where they are when the rest of me is halfway in the middle of a turn.

That can get me badly burned. Or killed, depending on where I happen to be standing.

After six surgeries on these four body parts, their neurological relationship with the brain is skewed. It will come back, but in my body's time frame. Not mine.

Any of you who live with someone with a neurological disorder, or were born with one, or developed one later in life, you know precisely what this is like. Nalini had a stroke and has since recovered from it, so the same goes for those terrible and terrifying events which separate us from our working parts.

I have to admit that first, I didn't see this coming (most of you probably didn't either) and I genuinely appreciate the insight and compassion which comes of a discombobulated body and brain.

However, unlike many, I am likely to get better.

That said, the lessons don't dissipate.

The Universe is sending me a few texts right now, headlined SLOW DOWN. You're not ready yet. My brain wants to get going, my body doesn't quite speak the language. Besides, having brand-new bionic feet won't do me much good if I've battered the rest of me badly enough.

My go mode is full on, and these days with a different body, I need to renegotiate that. My hands haven't developed their dexterity again yet, and I've broken more than my fair share of nice cups and plates finding that out. Good thing I don't wear mascara; I'd poke my eyeballs out.

It's tempting to give in to the urgency to get going again. And, if I do, I will likely take a worse header than I did today. What a superb lesson in being mostly fit, for things do happen, we do fall, albeit at least in my case it wasn't due to lack of training or polypharmacy.

I just need these damned body parts to start checking their texts.

a walk in Gdansk forests
Photo by Michał Parzuchowski / Unsplash

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