The Fall
It wasn't pretty. I was in my home office. It has a wood floor and a really swanky chair that I stole from my work office. Actually, I regard that chair as MINE. It was ordered especially for me. I was able to secure the funds for a special chair for my bad back and I went to the special store and ordered it. Picked out the color, a deep Husker red, something that I always regretted because it was not nearly as snazzy as I thought it was. It looked a bit gaudy. Still. It was my chair and when I retired, I took it with me.
That chair has broken twice in the 4 years that it has been in our home office. T has patched it back up instead of buying a new one because....welll.....I loved that chair.
I no longer love the chair. It has declared that it hates me and we are no longer speaking. Okay. I am sitting in it at present because T has once again repaired it, but we are going shopping for a new chair next week when she is on Spring Break. But, I am leery of it, as I am with all those that I do not trust. I don't just trust that when I plop down, it will have my back.
That sucker dumped me on the floor. As I said, I had finished my business on the computer and went to roll away from my desk and get up and it dumped me right on the floor. The whole back of it tipped up and I fell directly on my knees on the hard floor. My feet did not break my fall because I can no longer really feel my feet. Due to neuropathy from chemo, my feet are completely numb. So, when I fell, they sort of just slid underneath me and let my knees, which are not in the least numb, take the brunt.
The pain was indescribable. I saw stars. I thought that only cartoon characters who hit their heads with baseball bats saw stars. Apparently not. I not only saw stars, I nearly blacked out. One moment I was in the chair, the next I was on my knees on the floor screaming mother fucking bloody murder.
No one heard. To add insult to injury, I had gotten up mainly because I had to pee. I still had to pee. Except now I was on the floor in terrible pain. I reached for the chair and immediately realized that this was a bad choice as it was in disrepair and on wheels. The desk was at my head level and I did not know if I had the upper body strength to pull myself up, using that as leverage.
Do me a favor. Sit on the floor. Now try to get up without depending on your knees or your feet for leverage. In my case, my knees were two pounding-in-pain balls of nothing. My feet could not find purchase since they could not feel the floor.
It took me three tries and so many curse words that your great grandmothers would be rolling in their graves, but I got up. My back and upper arms and shoulders were screaming like banshees, but I did it.
And then I started crying, not because I was hurt. I don't cry much from pain any more. I can take it. Go ahead. Try me. But, I was so fucking mad. Mad at my damaged body. Mad at this place where I am in life.
When T got home a few hours later, I was so stiff that I could barely walk. She railed at me. Why hadn't I called our next door neighbor? He would have come over in a jiffy to help. Or...call her. She would have left school to come home.
I didn't call anyone because I am a stubborn goat. Calling someone would be admitting that I was helpless in a situation and it is incredibly important that I not be there yet.
So, here I am today. Spending the day barely moving. I can walk. Nothing is broken. Both of my knees are a deep black. I try very hard not to think about blood clots. I am limping, but I am walking. I made it....ALONE.....to my rheumatoid arthritis appointment today, but wore pants and lied when I answered the questionnaire that had on question number 14) Have you fallen in the last six weeks? I said no. Because if you say yes, they put this belt around your waist and walk you around like a dog on a leash. I will not wear that fucking belt.
I maybe should have had the rheumatologist look at my knees, but, frankly, I was terrified that she would want to admit me to the hospital for observation. When I left the hospital in May of 2018, I swore that I would never go back. No. Matter. What.
So, call me stubborn. Call me willful. Call me crazy.
But, mostly? Call me independent.
I'm still here. And I am fine.
But that fucking chair is toast.
That chair has broken twice in the 4 years that it has been in our home office. T has patched it back up instead of buying a new one because....welll.....I loved that chair.
I no longer love the chair. It has declared that it hates me and we are no longer speaking. Okay. I am sitting in it at present because T has once again repaired it, but we are going shopping for a new chair next week when she is on Spring Break. But, I am leery of it, as I am with all those that I do not trust. I don't just trust that when I plop down, it will have my back.
That sucker dumped me on the floor. As I said, I had finished my business on the computer and went to roll away from my desk and get up and it dumped me right on the floor. The whole back of it tipped up and I fell directly on my knees on the hard floor. My feet did not break my fall because I can no longer really feel my feet. Due to neuropathy from chemo, my feet are completely numb. So, when I fell, they sort of just slid underneath me and let my knees, which are not in the least numb, take the brunt.
The pain was indescribable. I saw stars. I thought that only cartoon characters who hit their heads with baseball bats saw stars. Apparently not. I not only saw stars, I nearly blacked out. One moment I was in the chair, the next I was on my knees on the floor screaming mother fucking bloody murder.
No one heard. To add insult to injury, I had gotten up mainly because I had to pee. I still had to pee. Except now I was on the floor in terrible pain. I reached for the chair and immediately realized that this was a bad choice as it was in disrepair and on wheels. The desk was at my head level and I did not know if I had the upper body strength to pull myself up, using that as leverage.
Do me a favor. Sit on the floor. Now try to get up without depending on your knees or your feet for leverage. In my case, my knees were two pounding-in-pain balls of nothing. My feet could not find purchase since they could not feel the floor.
It took me three tries and so many curse words that your great grandmothers would be rolling in their graves, but I got up. My back and upper arms and shoulders were screaming like banshees, but I did it.
And then I started crying, not because I was hurt. I don't cry much from pain any more. I can take it. Go ahead. Try me. But, I was so fucking mad. Mad at my damaged body. Mad at this place where I am in life.
When T got home a few hours later, I was so stiff that I could barely walk. She railed at me. Why hadn't I called our next door neighbor? He would have come over in a jiffy to help. Or...call her. She would have left school to come home.
I didn't call anyone because I am a stubborn goat. Calling someone would be admitting that I was helpless in a situation and it is incredibly important that I not be there yet.
So, here I am today. Spending the day barely moving. I can walk. Nothing is broken. Both of my knees are a deep black. I try very hard not to think about blood clots. I am limping, but I am walking. I made it....ALONE.....to my rheumatoid arthritis appointment today, but wore pants and lied when I answered the questionnaire that had on question number 14) Have you fallen in the last six weeks? I said no. Because if you say yes, they put this belt around your waist and walk you around like a dog on a leash. I will not wear that fucking belt.
I maybe should have had the rheumatologist look at my knees, but, frankly, I was terrified that she would want to admit me to the hospital for observation. When I left the hospital in May of 2018, I swore that I would never go back. No. Matter. What.
So, call me stubborn. Call me willful. Call me crazy.
But, mostly? Call me independent.
I'm still here. And I am fine.
But that fucking chair is toast.
Comments
Post a Comment