As you know, I’m lame and I can’t feel much in my left leg. Usually (years of practice!) I pretty well automatically put my right foot forward as it were, ’cos I know my left one won’t take my weight, even if it is only 63 kilos* or so.
But climbing out of the bath after a shower, I forgot somehow, put all my weight on my lame leg, that collapsed and I went flying head first across the bathroom. If I hadn’t got my hand out to try to break the fall it would have been a lot worse. I missed knocking myself out on the bathroom door (it’s not a very big bathroom, being a London flat) literally by millimetres. I felt my hair brush the panel just as my hand bent back as it hit the floor just before the rest of me. That’s how I sprained my wrist.
What really scared me is that last time that sort of thing happened, I actually did knock myself out. Somehow I got to bed, because I came to hours later and I couldn’t understand why my nose hurt and why there was blood all over the pillow.
I really thought for a moment someone had broken in and beaten me up and I couldn’t remember. Or I'd been to bed with someone who had. Jesus, I couldn't really have done that could I? (I had a fuzzy flashback of a trainee accountant I nearly went to bed with who murdered a guy later.) It was only when I crawled to the loo (couldn’t stand up, I kept going dizzy) I got an inkling of what had really happened. Sherlockian deduction.
“Elementary my dear Watson. The nose is broken and has been bleeding profusely. There is a (very sore) bruise and a lump on the forehead. Observe, Watson, streaks of dried blood on the outside of the bathroom door.” (It’s down a short flight of stairs.) “Obviously the victim lost his footing on the stairs, fell headlong, hit the door and knocked himself out.”
I still haven’t a clue how I got back to bed that night, but I’m glad I did, because there was no-one else in the house for days. I fell down the main bloody stairs twice earlier this year, and the whole place was empty then as well. Doesn’t bear thinking about.
This time, there were two friends in the living room watching my telly. Trouble is, I yelled out as I fell but they didn’t hear me. They didn’t hear me moaning as I lay there clutching my wrist, either, wondering if I might have done some more damage to my already somewhat fucked-up spine . . . They might not have found me for ages. Just thought I was lounging around having a really long bath. I do, often. I read a lot in the bath . . .
Hmmm. Do you wonder I’m in a bit of a sombre mood just at the moment, despite the odd little jokey story I post. This, on top of damn nearly killing myself by accident with an overdose of the painkilling stuff I take, all within a week as well, makes you feel as though your hold on life can be pretty shaky sometimes.
I keep thinking of that Alan Bennett Talking Heads story of the old lady (it was Thora Hird, wasn’t it?) slowly dying unable to move from where she fell . . . "A Cream Cracker under the Settee." I thought that only happened when you were old.
So is this the way it will end? Not with a bang, just a thump as I fall and a whimper nobody hears? Oh god, I hope not.
*American readers: not sure what that is in pounds. 145 or something like that?
I still haven’t a clue how I got back to bed that night, but I’m glad I did, because there was no-one else in the house for days. I fell down the main bloody stairs twice earlier this year, and the whole place was empty then as well. Doesn’t bear thinking about.
This time, there were two friends in the living room watching my telly. Trouble is, I yelled out as I fell but they didn’t hear me. They didn’t hear me moaning as I lay there clutching my wrist, either, wondering if I might have done some more damage to my already somewhat fucked-up spine . . . They might not have found me for ages. Just thought I was lounging around having a really long bath. I do, often. I read a lot in the bath . . .
Hmmm. Do you wonder I’m in a bit of a sombre mood just at the moment, despite the odd little jokey story I post. This, on top of damn nearly killing myself by accident with an overdose of the painkilling stuff I take, all within a week as well, makes you feel as though your hold on life can be pretty shaky sometimes.
I keep thinking of that Alan Bennett Talking Heads story of the old lady (it was Thora Hird, wasn’t it?) slowly dying unable to move from where she fell . . . "A Cream Cracker under the Settee." I thought that only happened when you were old.
So is this the way it will end? Not with a bang, just a thump as I fall and a whimper nobody hears? Oh god, I hope not.
*American readers: not sure what that is in pounds. 145 or something like that?
