First thing Monday morning, I lost my footing on a solid oak step, fell hard to my backside, slid down five painful stairs on my left side and landed in a puddle of coffee on the basement floor.
I managed to hold onto my full, red coffee mug all the way down, though hot liquid flew against the walls and the scooters piled at the bottom of the steps, down my pajama pants and all over my most cozy around-the-house sweater.
Such a rude welcome to the week.
Unlike other times I’ve fallen down the stairs, I wasn’t moving too quickly, carrying too much or wearing too long pants that caught under my feet. And though I may have been more groggy than normal with the irksome time change, mine was just an ordinary trip down the stairs, until I reached that one, fifth from the bottom.
All week since, I’ve felt fragile.
And something about not being able to blame it on some measurable mistake has made it worse.
Instead of shaking my head at my foolishness, I just feel sore and creaky.
Deep, deep achy.
And vulnerable.
I still haven’t been able to shake the feeling.
A number of years ago, after a series of car accidents, I began to experience numbness on the left side of my body, from my face to my foot.
The pain was troubling, strange, at times sharp and stinging, plenty of moments just so darned irritating. I visited physical therapists and massage therapists, had an MRI, did exercises, prayed.
I hated that struggle, and I struggled against my inability to name it and move beyond it.
That numbness lasted for a year and a half, gradually fading until it was a mostly distant memory.
I’ve dealt with bouts of chronic pain in my life, though nothing like many brave ones I know who endure on a daily, yearly basis.
But my fall this week brought back to my frame that place of the unexplained hard.
And when the ground under my feet shifted, I realized again what I know, what I keep learning as a human on this planet:
I am indeed fragile, vulnerable.
I take one step in front of another. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t.
Little toddlers scale walls proud, until feet catch, and the tumble is hard to concrete.
Little girls dance free on kitchen rugs until the rug slips out from under, and then the crash and the cries.
Bigger girls stand in front of a room, and a boy gives away the punch line, and the girl shrinks inside and keeps going, holding head high.
You, with your shaken dreams and broken places, sometimes you feel the fragile, and you struggle for answers and you just don’t know, so you push against what you can and get back up.
Sometimes you feel the vulnerable, and then you change into some dry clothes, pour another cup of coffee, and climb down those stairs again.
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
Sometimes it is literally, just one step at a time. Hoping you bounce back completely. I love you so!
Yes — step by step. You, too, honey.
Falling like that seems like our own personal mini-earthquake. The ground we walk on (even the stairs) – a foundation of sorts – we don’t ever think it could slip out from under us. You’re so right, it’s unsettling when it happens and we’re left Knowing we are fragile, that suddenly, things can shift, can change. So sorry for your fall dear girl. Heal fast and full! I love you.
Yes, that’s just it. We take our foundation (in so many forms) for granted, don’t we?
I have lived that moment, and it is so mind boggling when you can’t blame it on a specific cause. Maybe it is God’s way to make us slow down and smell the roses. I love you, Ashley!
Yes! Slowing, slowing this week…Love you!
I love this:
‘I take one step in front of another. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t.’
Isn’t that the truth of it? And yet our father keeps encouraging us to keep walking.
I’m so thankful for that, Kathi!
My heartfelt wishes for a quick recovery…I know that once over the shock, you poured yourself another cup, and continued your journey. Chronic pain, our own fragility, and uncertainty looking at the future are intimidating. Always look skyward for solace and strength to continue.
Thank you, Papa. You are right.
Oh, I am sorry Ashley. You turned the story into something positive, however :-)
Thanks, Deb. :)
Life is so fragile and such a gift our good health is… and good mental health as well. On the bright side… I slid on stairs at a Christmas party (stockings on carpet are never a good idea) and managed to shoot red wine across every wall and flooded the pure white wool carpet. It looked.. well, like someone had been seriously injured and I spent an hour trying to mop it up in my party dress while guests arrived… and it wasn’t my party (or my house)… sigh.. I can laugh about it now…
Oh my word, Smidge! That is a horrible (and hilarious in a very dark comedy kind of way) story. What a vulnerable position to be in for all kinds of reasons. I am glad you can laugh now. That must have been awful!
It was tough seeing you in pain last night and not your energetic self! Thanks for being so open and honest…love you and am praying for a speedy recovery!
Thank you, sweetie. Sorry about last night, and thanks again for the lovely bday dessert!
Glad you were able to go ahead and put your foot forward.Many times we let it get us down and that is when we let God in and he leads us forward. Mom
Thank you. So right.
Dear Ashley,
So very sorry for your fall. At my age, I’ve fallen down, up, on stage, back stage and off the end of . . . You name it, “umpteen” times. I’m good at covering it up like most actors, but what you really need now is the softness of your favorite chair, a cup of tender tea and the sweet aroma of an olde fashioned bouquet of Daphne. I’m calling you via phone for delivery directions!
Take care sweet friend,
Janet Day Brelje
Thank you, Janet. You are such a pro! Thank you for your loving wishes.
Heal quickly and completely and please, be more careful on those stairs!
Thanks, Don!
This is a beautiful reminder of our vulnerability. It’s especially disturbing when there doesn’t seem to be a “reason” for the fall. We love to have explanations, something to point to… But sometimes it just is. I hope you heal all the way through.
Thank you for such tender writing, Ashley.
I’m so glad you know what I mean about wanting an explanation, Carolyn. Yes, sometimes it just IS! Thank you for your healing, loving words.
ps…LOVE your collage
Thank you!