That Little Voice
That Little Voice
I am a fallen woman having joined a club whose members nod with admiration, sympathy, and understanding when I declare my status as one of them.
We don’t meet regularly and many don’t know more than a dozen others who claim qualifications to belong. Although loosely connected, the group has a network that seems to mysteriously notify others, far and wide, when help is needed.
Membership eligibility depends on survival of a near-death tumble, causing broken bones, colorful bruising, blood stained clothing, and a trip to a medical facility.
A mere stumble causing a sprained ankle is not considered member worthy.
Dues to remain active in this ever-growing and non-discriminatory society, seem to be specific in content.
Closet doors are swung open, garage storage rooms are searched, and attic clutter is rummaged for crutches, wheelchairs, slings, braces, walkers, ace bandages, and tons of medical gauze.
A list of physical therapists and the name of a reputable orthopedic surgeon will also contribute to fee payments.
Interestingly, those joining are usually over the age of 65. It appears there is a correlation between qualifying for Medicare and damaging one’s limbs.
San Miguel de Allende is known as the City of Fallen Women, although men are not excluded, they seem less inclined to boast about their stumbles, whereas, women want to advertise their ability to survive major mishaps.
The tendency to fall as we get older is not a new phenomenon. People throughout the ages have endured broken bones, head injuries, surgeries, and embarrassment, often through no fault of their own.
In fact, it seems imbalance can occur when you are standing still, looking out a window at a lovely sunrise or watching a rabbit nibble on your beautiful roses. Without warning you are intimately involved with your tiled, carpeted, or wooden floor, wondering how you got here and if there was a less violent way to make a personal connection with this surface.
Scientists are studying if falls are accidents or if our bodies are telling us they are tired and worn out. Since bones don’t communicate in the English language, or any language it seems, medical experts continue to decipher which came first: the fall or the misstep.
My grandmother was washing dishes moving only her arms when she found herself staring up rather than down at the sink. Her hip had refused to hold her upright, and she dropped, full-force. The hip broke first followed by her fall, rather than falling first and breaking her hip as a result.
We fallen women don’t really care what caused our injury. We simply want immediate treatment, painkilling drugs, nurturing, and an audience to hear colorful details of our injuries.