After the Fall
Something Happened. I fell. Down an escalator. It was unsightly, unpleasant and pretty painful, but it endorsed my belief that people, as a whole, are decent.
I tumbled headfirst down the escalator after missing a step. I was fortunate enough to twist and land on my back, and somehow managed to keep my head from taking a hit. A young woman, an off-duty nurse, hit the machine’s emergency stop button just as I reached the bottom. One shoe came off, as did my glasses and the plastic bag holding my purchases. The nurse advised me not to move, and I managed a mental inventory of my sorry state. I could feel my legs, wiggle my toes, and both my arms hurt. I was not confused or woozy, and alert enough to refuse an ambulance and request help standing up. A tall, Black guy, squatted and lifted me as if I were a sack of potatoes, then set me gently on my feet. Someone gave me a bottle of water; someone else handed me my glasses and purchases, while a teenager found my errant shoe and handed it to me.
A small crowd had gathered, among which were two store employees who seemed eager to see me on my way. The nurse requested they get some gauze and bandages, and a few minutes later I was hastily bandaged, and leaning against a wall with several volunteers ready to drive me home.
One middle-aged lady pushing a baby carriage spoke to me in an unknown--by me--language for several minutes. I nodded and thanked her repeatedly. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
I went home and spent an uneasy night. Blood seeped through the bandages and stained the pillow and sheet. I awoke several times, sore all over, and my neck felt as if someone had it with a stick. In the morning, I met a writer for breakfast, and we solved the world’s literary problems. After this, I decided it might be a good idea to go to an urgent care facility and get the wound cleaned and bandaged properly.
Urgent Care is a misnomer. It took three-and-a-half hours, five nurses, and one doctor to tell me I was fine. No concussion, no broken bones, no incipient infection, and no need for stitches. I was rebandaged, given an antibiotic salve, and a bottle of antiseptic solution.
Over the years, I have resisted all attempts by others to make my aging life easier. It took a friend who put up with my failing hearing and threatened me with abandonment before I got hearing aids. I refuse to wear bifocals or trifocals because they make me look hold. For years people have recommended I use a hiking stick when walking. I will start doing so, as long as it doesn’t look like a cane.
What moved me was the number of people who stopped whatever they were doing and helped me. It was unexpected, welcome, and reaffirming.
I tumbled headfirst down the escalator after missing a step. I was fortunate enough to twist and land on my back, and somehow managed to keep my head from taking a hit. A young woman, an off-duty nurse, hit the machine’s emergency stop button just as I reached the bottom. One shoe came off, as did my glasses and the plastic bag holding my purchases. The nurse advised me not to move, and I managed a mental inventory of my sorry state. I could feel my legs, wiggle my toes, and both my arms hurt. I was not confused or woozy, and alert enough to refuse an ambulance and request help standing up. A tall, Black guy, squatted and lifted me as if I were a sack of potatoes, then set me gently on my feet. Someone gave me a bottle of water; someone else handed me my glasses and purchases, while a teenager found my errant shoe and handed it to me.
A small crowd had gathered, among which were two store employees who seemed eager to see me on my way. The nurse requested they get some gauze and bandages, and a few minutes later I was hastily bandaged, and leaning against a wall with several volunteers ready to drive me home.
One middle-aged lady pushing a baby carriage spoke to me in an unknown--by me--language for several minutes. I nodded and thanked her repeatedly. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
I went home and spent an uneasy night. Blood seeped through the bandages and stained the pillow and sheet. I awoke several times, sore all over, and my neck felt as if someone had it with a stick. In the morning, I met a writer for breakfast, and we solved the world’s literary problems. After this, I decided it might be a good idea to go to an urgent care facility and get the wound cleaned and bandaged properly.
Urgent Care is a misnomer. It took three-and-a-half hours, five nurses, and one doctor to tell me I was fine. No concussion, no broken bones, no incipient infection, and no need for stitches. I was rebandaged, given an antibiotic salve, and a bottle of antiseptic solution.
Over the years, I have resisted all attempts by others to make my aging life easier. It took a friend who put up with my failing hearing and threatened me with abandonment before I got hearing aids. I refuse to wear bifocals or trifocals because they make me look hold. For years people have recommended I use a hiking stick when walking. I will start doing so, as long as it doesn’t look like a cane.
What moved me was the number of people who stopped whatever they were doing and helped me. It was unexpected, welcome, and reaffirming.
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