Going Down!

 What happens when you fall?

You can fall from grace. You can fall off the wagon. You can literally fall off a horse, bike, or cliff. (You choose) No matter figuratively or realistically, it involves a demeaning, sometimes catastrophic moment in your life that could affect you physically over a long or short time, or mentally leaving your with fearful scars preventing you from going through life in a carefree manner not wanting a repeat of said injury. 

What I find most interesting is the time involved between the moment of realization and impact. From the outside looking in, it seems quick. You blink and a person who is standing is suddenly gone from view and lying instead supine on the ground. “It happened so quickly” is often the response. But is it quick? 

The thoughts that go through your mind during the actual occurrence leads me to think otherwise. Or is it quantum leap science at work? In those very quick moments, it is as if you have left your body for a different realm while the vessel left behind is under assault by said action. Why do I say this, you ask? Well, it is because the amount of thoughts that go through your mind do not match the amount of time it takes to fall. Normally, my ever so “growing sluggish” menopausal mind cannot even remember what I walked in a room for, but in the seconds that it takes to hit the ground, I have an entire litany of questions and hypothetical situations occur, some with actually cause and effect responses like the time I fell on the ski slope and went down while thinking how I promise to never put on skis again if I can get up without a broken bone once I hit the icy slop.

In today’s fall, my thought process went like this:

“OH F#6K!” (Please excuse the explicative.) I am going to fall! Is there anything I can grab to stop it? No, (thankfully because I would have ripped my arm out of my socket trying)! I guess it’s going to happen. Dammit! I can’t believe I’m going to fall again. I said I would be more careful. I wonder how hard I will hit? Will I slam my already bad back? I wonder if I will slam my head on the concrete. I wonder if I will pass out and if my husband will notice me out here behind this hottub. I should have known better than to drag this stupid massive golf practice mat while walking backwards. Oh there it is; I made contact. I actually hit with my butt first, and it cushioned my fall. Great, I am curved and I practically feel myself slowly lowering vertebrae by vertebrae to the ground. Yay, I will be able to keep my head off of the ground! Phew!

Then of course there are the afterthoughts… all still occurring within the same ten seconds.

Ugh! It was these oversized Crocs. Why would I walk backwards in one size too big shoes with no strap on? What was I thinking? Oh no, wait, I was wrong; it was the patio. I think I tripped over the curved section with the exposed metal rim. I couldn’t see it because of this rug. I wonder if I am hurt. Hmm. No, not yet, but I bet I will feel it tomorrow. The last time my back didn’t lock up until the third day. I wonder how long it will last? Will I need pain pills or muscle relaxants? 

These thoughts which all start in the ether realm, become more real time as I slowly start to move while taking stock doing body part by body part assessments for pain. 

Once again, I ask how in the world did I have all those thoughts in a few seconds with my geriatric mind. It had to be a quantum leap of protection. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Kitchen Crud Pharmaceuticals

Nooooo! I yelled, eyes closed, head tilted skywards to the god of Murphy Law as I stood there already late with my purse on one shoulder, lunch bag on the other and computer bag dangling from the forearm. Inches away, steaming the aroma of burnt Cafe Domingo Keurig Coffee into the air is my travel mug. Thankfully, it was not in my hand when it happened. 

You see, my six feet four husband (typically the focus of blame as I am his) likes to store pills on the top shelf. No matter how many times I tried to lower mine, in a few months he would deem the cupboards cluttered and rearrange them -- again, conveniently finding so much more space on the highest of high shelves. So I gave up and learned to deal. Thus, this morning as I stood on my tippy toes (ok, yes, I admit, I may have had too many bags in my hand) when I pulled down my bottle which may or may not have been screwed on lopsided,  when all hell broke loose. Pills flew everywhere. I surveyed the situation wherein a new prescription bottle of 90 tiny little white methimazole pills lay strewn across the counter, the stove, and yes, the floor. 

I do not know what is worse, being already late when it happened, the spill itself, or the fact that I have no recourse but to pick up these new now contaminated lifeline pills and still ingest them knowing that they are now fused with who knows what. Yes, my counter looks clean, and yes, I do wipe it down every night, but as I test it and rub my hands across the mottled granite design, I still feel the invisible crumbs of salt, spices, and bygone meals that are ever present no matter how hard I try. The pills are too little to pick up individually with my always tad bit swollen hands, so I must sweep them all together along with the invisible crumbs into a collection container. I must also pull out the oh-so-cute but dusty bric-a-brac and oily bottle of olive oil from against the wall to get to the ones that secreted themselves away behind them in the oily, cruddy mess . 

Next, I notice the Olympians, those that made the giant leap onto the stove navigating it like an obstacle course and now lay proudly surrounding the closest eyes clearly awaiting rewards for their herculean efforts. The pathetic less athletic ones that made it half-way, find themselves stuck -- wedged between the greasy grate and the stainless steel. Though wiped down nightly, I suddenly see the spots I missed as I pluck the pills from the tiny greasy glue spots. Hmm? Was that catfish grease and collard green juice from dinner two days ago?  

Lastly, I look to the floor and cringe. It's too many to ignore. My doctor surely will not give me a prescription that early to replace them. I must have heart, dig deep and suck it up. I begin gathering them one by one and mentally wiping each one on my dress, and kissing it before holding it to the sky while repeating the old childhood cleansing and sanitizing mantra for dropped candy, "God kiss it, devil miss it!" I silently begin to wonder when was the last time I actually mopped. I immediately make a mental note to add it to my to-do list, while privately thanking God that we do not have a dog to further muddy the waters. 

Once the last of my thyroid medicine is secure, cap tight, and placed back on the highest of high shelves, I take my daily dose, grab my too many bags and now cold coffee and head out to work late. Very late. Meanwhile I mentally hope that my failing menopause memory kicks into overdrive and forgets this ever happened to prevent me from gagging for the next thirty days when I must take my daily dose of kitchen crud pharmaceuticals.