One Day At A Time

What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours.  Well, that’s what Dinah Washington said in her song, and until today I never had a reason to believe differently.  Her version said the sun and the flowers came where there used to be rain.  I say there might be unpleasant surprises after an elderly person falls.

Yesterday around lunchtime I fell.  Mine was a pretty soft landing compared to dozens and dozens of stories I’ve heard from my friends and acquaintances.  The side of my calf was sore for a few hours and I felt sort of frazzled and over-tired by bedtime.  Other than that, I considered myself unharmed.

Thanking my lucky stars for my own foresight, I dragged out my husband's old aluminum walker.  He died eleven years ago, and it certainly wasn't a sentimental memory, but the practical side of myself had stashed it in a closet.  

Surprise.  I woke up at my usual time and went through my little routine.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I noticed I’d slept uninterrupted (if you know what I mean) for at least two hours longer than usual.  Didn’t think much of it except that it was a good thing.  Getting dressed was uneventful.  When I stood up and headed for the kitchen I forgot to grab the walker, though, and immediately noticed I wasn’t quite as steady on my feet.  I didn’t fall, and I wasn’t dizzy or disoriented.  I knew exactly where I was and what I was doing.  I just felt a bit wobbly. 

Being me, I went back for the walker and brushed it off, telling myself it would go away in a while.  At this point it had only been eighteen hours or so. 

But lunchtime came and went.  I was getting tired again, so I stretched out on the bed and had a little nap.  Unusual but not unheard of in my case.  Whatever, I told myself.  Maybe it’ll take 36 hours or even 96 hours to recover fully.  I won’t be driving again until I get over the wobbles, and I know my friends will appreciate that.  My journey continues.