As subtle hints of autumn begin to appear in the natural world, I’ve been thinking about things that fall.
Leaves. Trees. Buildings. People.
It’s almost impossible to believe it’s been 25 years since the Twin Towers fell. I vividly remember watching it happen in real time, through a TV studio window, as I sat in front of the Today Show nursing my newborn in our little starter home on Depot Road. How could a quarter century have passed since that abject horror broke into our regularly scheduled programming, changing everything?
It’s even harder to believe, for me, anyway, that it’s been a year since a freak fall took my husband’s life on a beautiful, lazy Sunday afternoon. I was reading in bed – and all was right with the world – when I heard the crash in our hallway. He never got up.
I was thinking about that fateful fall a few days ago, exactly one year later – August 31, 2026 – when I got a phone call telling me the Witness Tree at the Conroy Center, the remaining half they were hoping to preserve, had fallen in the wee hours of the morning.
I later learned the great American poet Wendell Berry had died that very same day. From now until forever, August 31st will be Fallen Giants Day for me.
On a less dramatic note – though it was harrowing enough at the time – I took my own fall recently. Actually, for proportion’s sake, let’s call it a “little spill.”
And let me start by saying the day had rolled out splendidly until then. I’d been cheerful and productive – getting this paper off the printer, finishing various other work tasks, and even picking up a few cute tops from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. It was the first time in a year I’d been remotely interested in clothes shopping, and that, in itself, felt like a triumph.
And now, here I was downtown, about to meet a friend for happy hour. I felt good! Even better than good, I felt normal.
I parked in the gravel lot on Scott Street. You know, the one that seems to have been built at a time when cars were much smaller? Despite the challenge of getting in and out of it, those of us with downtown parking tags can park there without paying the meter, and so I do. I always figured I’d have some kind of accident there one day, but I never thought I’d be on foot when it happened.
Now let me stress something, y’all. Though I am certainly not young, this was not an “old person” fall. This was a “stupid person” fall. Running in a gravel parking lot while wearing floppy sandals is stupid. I didn’t think it through. I just saw ominous black clouds ahead and went into survival mode, hoping to reach Saltus before the sky opened up on me.
When I found myself on the ground, I was genuinely shocked. Or maybe more like… in shock. It happened so quickly and violently, this total reality shift. My cute TJ Maxx top was covered in dust and my elbows and knees were bloody. My head spun. I finally knew the meaning of the phrase “seeing stars.”
I pulled myself up to a sitting position and looked around. I couldn’t believe my luck that the parking lot was empty of people. Nobody had seen my humiliating plunge. Maybe I could just dust off my pants, wipe off my bloody parts, and still meet my friend at Saltus. I stood up and staggered to a sidewalk bench in front of Bathe, where – apparently – I proceeded to faint. I have never fainted it my life, but I’m told that’s what I did.
When I opened my eyes – the ones I didn’t know I’d shut – there were people gathered around me, and someone was extending a phone so I could talk to an EMS guy. Apparently, I had been “unresponsive” and my “color was weird,” so someone had called 911. But now I was coming around, and I assured EMS I didn’t need them – though I wasn’t so sure myself – and eventually convinced the sweet, caring people around me that I was fine to drive myself home. It was only a mile or so to Pigeon Point, after all.
I drove mostly with my right hand, as it became increasingly obvious that my left arm wasn’t right. It hurt like hell and was basically dysfunctional, my hand dangling from the steering wheel by a pinkie. After chatting on the phone with my daughter – who I had to re-traumatize by using the word “fall” – I reluctantly decided a trip to the ER was in order.
Oh, the dread. There are many bad things about driving yourself to the ER with one arm at 5:30 pm… starting with the fact that you’re driving yourself to the ER. (First time ever, for me.) The worst thing, however, is that you go in knowing that no matter what happens – best case scenario – the rest of your night is shot. There will be no supper, no cozy sofa time with the cats, no continuation of your current Netflix binge. You are signing on for the duration. Alone.
And so it was that four chaotic, yet also boring, hours later, I emerged with a splint, a sling, and a diagnosis of “elbow sprain with hairline fracture” to my left arm. I drove myself home in the dark – again, with one arm – and tried to focus on how lucky I am to be right-handed.
It mostly worked.
Since Jeff’s terrible, shocking death, it seems I can convince myself that almost any circumstance is lucky. (Almost any circumstance is, by comparison.) Trust me, it’s a fine skill to have!
What I haven’t quite mastered, however, is that Blanche DuBois-style reliance on the kindness of strangers. I probably should have allowed myself to be checked out by an EMT, but I didn’t want to inconvenience anybody. (I know… I know… it’s their job!) I could have let someone – other than myself – drive me that mile to my house. Maybe driving myself to the ER wasn’t the greatest idea either, or driving myself home from the ER in a splint, for that matter.
Fortunately, I made it both ways. Told ya I’m lucky.
Life is full of falls – both literal and figurative. When you’re married, you have a built-in safety net. I am still learning to fall without a net.
It’s a process.
