I’m alive and well but I can’t do much, won’t be able to swim for a week or so. No broken bones, but broken glass.
I had a neighbour in the building for dinner- a picnic, really. We had a piccolo of champagne on the balcony, quite late for me. She couldn’t come until 630 p.m. By then it was too cool to eat outside. I had one sip—a toast to the end of summer—and we went in for supper. i had made crab wraps in the morning—good picnic food. So we started in, but I didn’t make it.
I tripped and fell forward, saved by my right hand. I grazed my nose—a red streak down my nose will be gone. I hope, soon. But a piece of broken glass gouged a deep cut in the heel of my hand and that’s what hurt. It bled a lot. I ran it under water, wiped it with rubbing alcohol and managed ineptly to put on a sterile pad and taped it down, with help from my friend who is recovering from a stroke, so we were both awkward. I took some Tylenol. We ate the first (only) course and she helped me get to another neighbour downstairs who is a retired nurse and who has helped me before on two earlier falls several years ago now. I’ve been doing fall preventive exercises to improve my balance. Not enough.
My guest went home. I owe her dessert. My nurse-friend put on a fresh dressing and helped me home. I took some more Tylenol, didn’t sleep much, couldn’t find a comfortable position for my aching hand. In the morning, she replaced the dressing and swept up the glass on the balcony, despite my protests. (I don’t know who I thought was going to do it.)
I have a deep wound, which looks clean and is closing, but the flesh around it is deeply bruised and my whole hand is weak . My fingers move so I guess they’re not broken, but I have no strength. And I won’t be able to swim until the wound heals, for fear of infection
So I’m a lame duck,
My neighbour advised me to tell my children. John will order an alert warning for me to wear to guarantee instant help. No argument there. It hurts to type, though, and there’s no help for that. I can’t afford an amanuensis.
Old age is expensive. The older I get the more it costs.
Thank goodness for the Sunday New York Times.