You probably think you’re afraid of the possibility of a broken bone, or a concussion. But what it really is, is the embarrassment. Especially if you can’t get yourself back up without help. And you have to call 9-1-1, even though you’re not hurt. You know that commercial that goes, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”? It’s not so funny when it’s you . . . all alone . . . down there on the floor . . . on your ass.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back five or six years . . .

There I was, the consummate City Girl, happily living by myself in my big, beautiful apartment in a big, beautiful high-rise apartment building in northern Virginia, just eight miles outside of big, beautiful Washington, D.C. I’d lived in the D.C. area since the age of 13, and in that apartment for some 30 years — the last 25 or so on my own. I had even done a couple of solo overseas expat stints, in Prague and Moscow, back in the early ‘90s. Fiercely independent, I knew how to take care of myself.

But even the smartest, the toughest, the most careful of us stumble now and then. On this occasion, I was merely bending over to pick up a piece of paper I had dropped, lost my equilibrium, and felt myself going — oddly enough, not in the forward direction toward which I had been aimed, but backward. And in slow motion.

“Oo-o-o-o-o-o-h . . . no-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!!”

. . . I heard myself moaning in an unnaturally deep voice. Or at least that’s how it sounded in my head, as I ever-so-slowly (I thought) drifted toward the floor, trying desperately to grab for something solid that wasn’t there.

And then I hit the floor with a thud that must have had the folks on the floor below thinking the building had been hit with a wrecking ball. And as I snapped out of my slo-mo state, I realized I had simply sat down hard, landing on the best-padded part of me, and luckily not hitting my head or twisting any limbs. I was fine, though my backside was going to be one massive bruise.

But I had this long-standing problem — an orthopedic one. Actually, several of them. Two artificial (steel and titanium) knees; five fused lumbar vertebrae; two surgically-repaired rotator cuffs; four calling birds; three French hens . . . No, not the last two. But all the others.

And all of that makes it difficult — sometimes impossible — for me to haul myself up. But I had to try. So I butt-crawled to the nearest living room chair to use as a prop, but it was too tall. Next I tried the stone-top coffee table, but it was too low. And as I looked around, I realized there was no “Goldilocks” piece of furniture that I could grab onto in order to pull myself up off the freakin’ floor.

The one thing I did have was my phone. So I made the call.

And here’s where I felt about as stupid as I ever had before or since. That is, until I heard the 9-1-1 operator’s question. I told her what had happened, that I was not injured but had mobility issues and couldn’t get myself up from the floor. She said she’d send the EMTs, and I remembered to tell her that I had latched the safety chain on my apartment door, so they would need to bring heavy-duty bolt cutters with them. And she said:

“Well, can you take the chain off before they get there?”

[Pause for laughter and snide comments about intelligence.]

My first thought was, “Yeah, lady, the chain is down here at floor level.” But what I said was, “Ma’am, if I could stand up to reach the chain, I wouldn’t need to call you for help.”

I wish I could have seen her face as she paused, then apologized and said the EMTs were on their way . . . with the bolt cutters.

The nearest fire station was just five minutes away, so they arrived post haste — all four of them. Three men and a woman, just to pick little old me up from the floor. I had managed to butt-scoot over to the door and reach the door knob to unlock it and to prop the door open slightly, so that when they arrived I could simply tell them to cut their way in. And when they snapped that chain and walked in, there I was — sitting like Buddha’s mother in the middle of the living room rug, laughing myself silly. Because it really was funny.

And they smiled, but were professional enough not to laugh outright, though they obviously wanted to. They insisted on checking my vitals and asking a few questions, and finally one huge guy stepped around behind me, put his big meathooks under my armpits, and in one motion lifted me up so easily and so quickly I thought he was going to toss me up in the air. Which would have been fun too, as long as he caught me on the way down again.

And that was it. They did their job; the building management was kind enough to replace the door chain without charge; and I got to tell my story over and over, to everyone who would listen. Because (I repeat) it really was funny.

We all have embarrassing moments in life. As long as everything turns out all right in the end, there are two ways to react: you can agonize over the short-term embarrassment; or you can look at it as a great story to be repeated, for the rest of your life, when the occasion arises. Like now.

I recommend going for the laugh; it’s good for the soul.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
10/2/24