After the Fall: What Got Shaken Up (aside from my hip joint)

Last week, while on my way to mail a letter honking along during my usual high speed power walk, I trip and fall. My phone goes flying, and while in the air, I calculate how I might fall to minimize the possibility of breaking a hip, or any other bone, for that matter. There was one millisecond amongst the fear of falling and creating serious damage that I feel the awe that stems from the limitlessness sense of freedom that one feels when flying through the air. My rebounder allows me to experience this sensation of being uplifted and disconnected from the earth in a far more controlled and safer context than the one that ended up with me sprawled across a sidewalk. The trampoline makes it safe to take a jump. Too safe maybe.

After the landing, there is the reckoning with the terrible question, “Can I get back up?” I take a deep breath, slowly and shakily prop myself up on my hands, come up on the side that is not injured, and pull myself erect. I stand. My phone is a few feet away in the grass. I know there is some injury on the right side that makes walking slow and painful, but at least I can retrieve my phone. My knee, very scraped up, will soon become full of texture and color thanks to a couple of blooming hematomas. It did not strike me until later that while there were no other pedestrians in view, this is a busy street traffic wise and not one passing car stopped to see if I was okay or to help. Was this because I have become invisible? Or because caring now seems to extend only to oneself and one’s own interests, like getting where I need to go as fast as possible?

Given that Calvin was outside away from a phone, I stoically limp home and once there, we proceed to the ER. I am shaking worse than the marsh grass on a windy day. At this point, wheelchair transport was the only way to get in and out. X-rays confirm nothing broken, but the guess was that I pulled some muscles. Loaded up with muscle relaxers and a pain shot called Toradol, (the shot itself caused way more pain than the actual injury), I decamp to bed and call my ortho guy.

Because we are each other’s health care proxies, Calvin and I now attend each other’s doctor’s appointments to prevent the dismissal of our concerns or patronizing treatment because of our age. Also, to ensure that one of us is hearing what the other might miss. I suffered through a somewhat grueling examination (where he talked mostly to Calvin and not to me using car, motorcycle and parachute fall metaphors to describe my injury), requiring me to ask for a plain English translation. The diagnosis was not about muscles but a very upset hip joint, already troubled by the onset of arthritis protesting the level of impact suffered during my fall. The last time I saw this doctor I had fallen from a bicycle and had no broken bones then either, which honestly, I am very proud of. Regardless, I receive a warning about “accepting” my age. Calvin, who is a bit on the naïve side, says when we’re in the car, “I think that doctor was a little misogynist.” Ya think?! But good for Calvin, he noticed.

But to get to the heart of this post, in the week that has followed as my activities ground to a halt, I have a therapy session that deconstructed events leading up to the fall making me face up to yet another layer of acceptance of my age (Distracted about something else, I was holding my phone waiting for a call, rather than packing it away and paying attention to where I was going). Now I have to depend completely on Calvin to do everything for me (Me: how can I ask he has cancer, He: you don’t have to ask, I want to). My greatest wish is to stay in bed and not move (which will not help me get well) and amid all of this, suddenly my joint was not the only thing that felt very shaken up.

As we were coming on to the end of the worst moments of the pandemic, I wrote, “I feel like I’ve been put into a cocktail shaker, shaken vigorously and I’m not sure what will pour out. Despite the ‘bitters’, I know it will be delicious.” The “cocktail shaker” this time my life here, my approaching 72. It contains the pre-packaged mix I brought with me from the city (and my entire life before). There are some new ingredients folded in, some “bitter”, (the death of my mother, Calvin’s diagnosis, cataracts, tinnitus, inflamed joints, the state of our country to name a few) and lovely, sweet ones too (a house, gardens, nature, a new grandson, new friends, overall good health). The last couple of years have vigorously shaken me up again; I’ve been unsure what would come of it.

When I have this feeling (because I’ve had it before), I recognize I am moving into the delectable process of elaborating and inhabiting a new identity. Of course, one that contains all the elements of who I have ever been. Because what I choose to wear is always part of the process, I find myself this week curating photos of clothing that somehow show this new aspect of me rather than tells it. If you follow me on Instagram, you may have noticed I am posting about clothes again. This time not me wearing them, but more because the clothes I choose to post about reflect something about this becoming, and because they are making me want to write about them again. I drop them in stories between issues that concern me, photos of my house and garden, wisdom from folks older than me about what’s next, objects, art, films or photos that make me take a sharp intake of breath because of the beauty and power they convey. And yes, links to my writing here.

As I look back on the last three posts I have written for this platform since I have given myself the freedom to just sit down and write without an agenda, I see this identity emerging in the text. Something rebelled. The word ESSAYS in caps. Something started to break and leak through, dripping into one of those beautiful vintage goblets I scored at the flea market. In the light that shines through the colored glass, I see something that looks rather delicious.

Like the photos of the clothing I save for inspiration, it contains layers of multiple pieces, different shapes, textures, colors, and prints. This emerging identity is not unidimensional, nor does it limit itself to a particular category. It’s fluid, moves and becomes when allowed, to just be what it wants to be. The same process is happening on Instagram. Despite my continual threats to leave, I stubbornly remain. There is something about it being a visual medium that keeps me engaged and searching. A big part of it is I have a wonderful community there as I do here that I don’t want to leave, I’ve known many of them for over ten years.

But the big epiphany, the real shake-up of this week is the acceptance that where I create most inspirationally, share my work most successfully, design most joyfully, is in a digital medium. I am a content creator. I produce original content, through my styling, photographs, art design and writing. I am also a content curator; I select and share existing content from other sources meaningfully, like when I did my Friday Fashion Bibliography on my old blog and like I do now on my Instagram and sometimes here. But now I, my body, my authenticity is not for sale. When I lost myself and my pleasure in the digital world, it was like taking a nasty fall. Scared, I abandoned all of it, I just laid down on my bed.

Like now, I realize I needed time, rest and reflection to recover. Just because I took a fall and lost my way does not mean I have to abandon all the things I love and that give me joy. I don’t have to stop power walking or running on my rebounder when my joint heals. I just need to be mindful and pay attention when I do. As balance and strength become challenged, moving when distracted is just not good sense. I need to adapt and adjust. A fashion editor once said about me that the secret to my success was that I was both aspirational and realistic. I loved that when I read it. Now I must remember that I can be realistic but that does not mean I have to lose the part of me that is aspirational.

This week, stuck in bed or a chair, I spend a good deal of time on-line. I have a different purpose and a fresh eye. I no longer compare myself to other writers. To writers who write books. When I find something to share I think will be meaningful to my community, I am filled with excitement. When I find a garment or look that expresses an aspect of this emerging identity, I feel joy. When I post a photo I took, or a quote from another writer that resonates with my community, it’s the same feeling of satisfaction I get when something I write here touches something in you. I like the immediacy, the feeling of connection that comes from writing and posting online. That’s why I loved teaching in the classroom. It felt that way too: in the moment and a sense of real engagement with my students. I never liked or wanted to write journal articles, it’s why I didn’t go for tenure. I remained a clinical professor, one whose main responsibility is to teach well.

I must confess I did not experience this level of exhilaration or pleasure from writing and promoting a printed book. I don’t think solitary, long form project writing is my metier. I found writing both of my books onerous and could not wait to get it over with. I’m not a writer who lives to write for publication. I only did because I thought I should. My sense of relief in acknowledging this is immense.

Today, as I make my way slowly across the room to sit at my desk, I accept that as I continue my aging journey, just like in ordinary life, there will be more times where something will happen that will really shake me up. I need to remember when I get back up on my feet, to look down on the ground for what also gets shaken loose. I might have misplaced something, lost something, or forgotten where I put something I was searching for. You never know what you’ll find, but it’s probably delicious and something you have sorely missed.

So very grateful to you all for supporting me in all the ways I express myself. I want to thank those of you again who have pledged money to support me. Still contemplating what to do about that.