SAVED BY MY DERRIERE
A few days ago I was injured in an accident inside my shower. Warning: This is not a post about a book in translation but I do hope it forces you to reevaluate your own environment at home.
About ten days ago, when my husband was thousands of miles away in India, I took a nasty fall inside our bathroom. I was almost done with my shower. I knew vaguely that I’d spilled a little soap on the shower floor. In the liminal space between life and death—humans cross it every day even though they don’t know it—my foot slid over the floor tile and I landed on my haunches.
Right after my body hit the floor with a terrifying thud, I knew that something awful had happened deep in my core. Imagine a car with a broken axle, a cracked egg extruding yolk through its shell. Somehow, I summoned the strength to haul myself up from that wetness. If I could pull myself up, perhaps that meant that I was intact even if some pieces inside had shattered. I needed to call for help. My phone was in the kitchen.
The next few minutes seemed dicey. I couldn’t afford to slip on the floor of the bathroom. Puddles formed as I stepped out. I have read that the human body can do extraordinary things under duress.
I had to find something to wear even as I sensed the severe tightening around my abdomen. I’ve heard stories of Everest climbers in the Death Zone; that section is as much a test of will power as it is a trial of their physical endurance. Climbing into my clothes that evening was an ordeal for it had become harder to take a deep breath.
Within ten minutes I was being ferried in an ambulance to an emergency room. I’d had the presence of mind to gather my phone and my purse while calling 911. I’d called a friend soon after. She arrived within minutes. Inside the ambulance, I requested help to call my niece whose number I knew off the top of my head. Who remembers numbers anymore in the day of the cell phone? My brain had been fogging up and I’d handed my phone and my purse to my friend who was following us in her car.
In the last week, I’ve learned how our body fights hard when it senses a threat. What I believed was pain and pressure in my abdomen were, in fact, the ramparts of my body closing in to shield my floating innards, all those delicate organs that we take for granted every day.
When I fell on my derriere, my tailbone did not break, thanks to good genes that ensured a built-in cushion from the day I was born. The 911 lady chuckled at my mention of the derriere that saved the day.
I’m well aware that had I broken my tailbone, I would not have been able to leave my (locked) bathroom to call for help. A friend who has experienced this tells me it’s excruciating and that he was immobile in the hours following his accident.
In the last few days, I’ve learned to be patient with myself. A T12 compression fracture is limiting but I’m back to my old routine. I’m careful. I cannot bend. I cannot carry heavy things. I cannot twist my body.
Some things are dapper, however. My husband is my slave, my minion, my gofer. For the first time in 40 years, he runs to the passenger side of our car to open and shut my door. He locks my seat belt into place. His newborn chivalry makes me wonder if I must delay my recovery.
Yesterday, I was fitted with a thoracic brace. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I looked all ready to go, like the suicide bomber who assassinated India’s Prime Minister in 1991. Unlike her, however, I do plan to live.
Do I really want to hit the “like” button here? My whole body was tense the entire time I’ve been reading this! Yikes! That scrim between life and death is thin indeed, and there have been many times when luck or instinct held me just this side of it. Not dead yet, as the old man in Monty Python and the Holy Grail insisted, but the cart looms for all of us. Glad your husband stepped up! Now get back to reading so we can check more books off our lists, vicariously. No twisting or heavy lifting, just page turning, OK?