Peril and privilege

Last week, I had an unexpected opportunity to learn a bit about the geometric perils of reality as an aging (and not always fully attentive) being. And also, in retrospect, about personal privilege in this physically fraught world.

My first lesson in physics came one evening in the early hours of an ice storm—an event so uncommon in Colorado that I found instant common ground with other Colorado natives in our shared sense of displacement: In Colorado? An ice storm? On the evening in question, I was crossing a street, doing my best to walk carefully—short steps, feet apart, arms free for balance—when I nonetheless slipped on the slanted road surface and landed hard on my kiester, glasses flying off backward into the street. Actually, my experience wasn’t of “slipping.” I was upright, and then I wasn’t. No struggle to regain my balance, no precarious moment when I thought I might be able to fall “correctly.” I was standing and then, without pause, I wasn’t. Two men stopped their respective trucks to hop out and hoist me back to my feet, then help me to the curb—a gesture I both hated and loved.

The fall itself wasn’t remarkable. I’ve since heard from or about several other people who fell that night or the next morning. It’s this extra bit, the “senior bonus” that makes it notable: my very first thought, even as I hit, was “Did I break a hip?” Then, “Did I break anything?” That instant fear of major injury is, at least for me, unique to my aging years. Partly, it’s about osteoporosis, the bugaboo of old women. But mostly, it’s about the many stories of broken hips leading to long, slow trajectories of healing or decline, as one problem yields to another in a body that’s, quite understandably, less resilient than it used to be.

I was lucky, as I’ve been with previous falls (although I have to say, those were less teeth rattling than this one). I was fine. I had a brief headache, and every joint in one arm felt sore. But I was fine in a day or two. I was lucky. This time.

Then, the next evening, I was moving a table—a huge, solid oak, sway-backed monster of a multi-section table—whose legs are loose and swing inward when you lift the table (which, for obvious reasons, can’t be dragged). It takes at least two to move it, and when you set it down, you have to use your feet to carefully move the legs outward so they won’t collapse under the weight of the table. Well, in a moment of less-than-laser-focused attention, I set the table down with a bit of one finger positioned right where the leg would soon make contact with the table top as it landed. When I pulled my searingly painful finger back, I saw not the expected deep red, bluing pinch injury, but a gush of blood. With considerable help, I got it bandaged with enough gauze and enough pressure to stem the flow. Trying for a little humor, I asked folks around me if I was looking pale … they just rolled their eyes. When I got home and took the bandage off, the gush resumed. So we bandaged it tight again, and I headed to urgent care the next a.m. They sewed it up and sent me home with a finger wrapped so as to accentuate my feelings about the political news of the day. 


Later that day, I took a wonderful hike in the snow with a friend, my wounded and bandaged middle digit carefully protected in a surgical glove.

So, I came away from these traumas to my body with minor injuries and good stories. But what if I hadn’t? What if I had broken something when I fell. If someone had suggested calling 911, I wouldn’t have had to think twice about the cost of an ambulance before I said OK. En route to the hospital, I wouldn’t have had to hesitate about whether to refuse any treatment they might suggest. Ditto in the ER and on the ward, if I were admitted. That’s thanks in part to Medicare, but it’s also because I can afford good supplemental coverage, and I can manage to pay whatever deductible is left over.

And when I actually did get hurt the next day (OK, in a minor way), I didn’t have to think twice about going to urgent care or about receiving the preferred treatment because of the cost. I didn’t hesitate to accept a digital block, which let me watch the stitching procedure without feeling it. And I welcomed the plastic finger-tip splint that I’m now wearing, without even asking what I’d be charged for it.

I came away from it all feeling really lucky that none of it was serious. And also really privileged that I never once had to second guess whether I could pay for whatever care I needed.

Amazing what you can learn from a fall and a finger pinch.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2017. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Comment on this post: 

If you got this blog via email, go to the blog website by clicking on the title at the top of this particular post.
To comment once you're on the website, click on "No comments" (or "2 comments" etc.) below the blog. Comments from "anonymous" welcome.