“It’s not the falling down that counts, it’s the getting up.” — Mary Pickford
Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes or read more than a few pieces of my work knows that falling down is almost a way of life for me. Between a balance disorder and the attention span of a gnat on Red Bull, bumping into large objects and tripping over nothing is a near-daily occurrence. I’ve grown used to it, at least as much as possible, and I’ve been lucky it hasn’t been too bad.
Until the other night, when I attempted to get out of bed, you know, like a normal person does, to get a drink of water. It’s not some complicated gymnastics move; you sit up, then you stand, then you walk. Except if you are me, then it’s sit up, stand up, take a step, pass out, bash your head on the floor…hey, Macarena. Who says sixty-year-old women don’t know how to have fun?
The getting up part took a few minutes, mostly because of the shock of what had just happened. I’m not going to lie; it was the first time in months I could see what was under my bed. Dust bunnies? No. Perhaps it was the impact of my skull on a hardwood floor, but I think I have dust elephants. However, that is a problem for another day.
Eventually, I hoisted my bits off the floor, grabbed an ice pack, and thought, “So this is how it goes. You hit a point in your life where standing up quickly is just a bridge too far.” All the scary scenarios went through my head—was it a heart attack, a stroke, some kind of seizure? I did not trip; I just fell right over. However, it was at least in the privacy of my own home. Most times when I’ve biffed it, there was a crowd around, so I was thankfully spared the mortification that always brings.
A visit to the doctor revealed it was probably a “Vasovagal syncope,” which is when all the blood rushes out of your head and straight to your feet. It left me with a small goose egg bump on my forehead and a concussion. I’m glad to know that I have no heart issues or any of the scarier stuff, so I spent the weekend not driving, trying to stay off screens, and making cautious, deliberate moves that reminded me of when the “Six Million Dollar Man” would hurl himself over a car in slow motion.
Honestly, staying off screens was the hardest part. As I write this column, I’m using talk-to-text and wearing sunglasses to proofread it, so apologies for any typos or poor syntax. At one point, I thought I was getting worse because the light seemed to flicker on and off in my living room, but it turns out the bulb was loose. We English majors call that “irony.”
It’s been four days, and there’s been steady improvement, so I am sure all will be well eventually. I’ve learned that adjusting to physical limitations, even minor ones, is not something I do well. Besides badminton, from which I am temporarily benched, I’m not sporty. Long walks are not my thing, I don’t run unless a crazed clown with an axe is chasing me, and I never hike, bike, or go to Zumba classes. However, telling me to sit down and rest, without the ability to annoy people on social media or read a book, makes me antsy enough to want to do a 5K, as if to say to the universe, “I am still here!” I won’t do that, of course, but sitting around feeling useless is getting old. It was a literal “smack in the head” to come right up against a common issue that impacts people of a “certain age,” as my doctor put it, so while my head feels better, my pride is still a bit sore.
For now, though, I will stay grateful that it wasn’t worse, that I did pick myself up and dust myself off. I’ll get to the elephants eventually.
Brenda Kelley Kim has lived in Marblehead for 50 years and is an author, freelance writer, and mother of three. Her column appears weekly.
