My butt hit with a painful thud, swiftly followed by a crack as my head bounced off the hardwood floor. A thrumming throb began to grow in my left ear, as a nob swelled on the same side of my head.

I lay sprawled on the floor, stunned, trying to sort out what had happened. I could hear my doctor’s voice pulsing from the nearby phone. I inched my body closer, grasped it, scooched to the easy chair and pushed myself up to standing.

An hour earlier, I had settled in to watch The View, phone by my side, waiting for the doctor to call to review heart meds. When the show ended, I dozed for a few minutes, before I was pulled from sleep by the ring of the phone. We chatted briefly before I stood up to walk over to my desk for some notes. Without warning, I catapulted to my awkward position.

The doctor insisted I call an ambulance and go to the emergency room to insure there was no bleeding in the brain. I demurred and continued on with my questions. She responded, then repeated her question about who should call an ambulance. I figured as long as I had her attention, I would push on with one final question. At that point, she made a huffing noise and said, “I can’t believe you want an answer to your question at a time like this. Are you going to call an ambulance or should I?” I got it. The seriousness of my situation was sinking in. I asked her to make the call.

“Sit still, don’t move until they arrive,” she said. “Good luck.”

I wasn’t able just yet to sit. I went to the bathroom, put on my coat, and waited with edginess for the EMTs to knock on my door.

Two elderly gentlemen came to fetch me. Enroute to the hospital, I learned that one had volunteered for 38 years, the other for 40, and that both would soon be phasing out of the program.

A layer of snow and ice blanketed my drive, so the EMTs asked that I exit via the garage door. As I stood in the opening, one firmly held my arm, the other attempted to back the vehicle close to the door. Time after time, the ambulance slid onto the lawn, carving black gashes in the snow.

The men loaded me on a gurney, locked it in place, and off we scuttered to a nearby emergency room. On the way, the EMTs received a message that the CT was down, and we were rerouted to another hospital.

After ten hours in an over-extended ER, a room opened up, and I was transferred to the fourth floor. The best the ER doctors could tell me was that my heart had not pumped enough blood to my head, hence the collapse.

One of the doctors insisted I had passed out. However, when my doctor made a house call after I returned home, she didn’t think so. She said she heard me muttering on the floor. While there was nothing more the ER docs could do, they wanted me to stay until my cardiovascular system could be evaluated, since I had had a stroke and two heart attacks, one recently.

Two days later I was discharged with the diagnosis of presyncope, the feeling you are about to faint. I was advised to continue meds and get up slowly. The latter I have been automatically doing since handicapped by a stroke six years ago. As for fainting, I never felt like I was going to.

My daughter, who lives in Queens, picked me up from the hospital. When I walked in the door, I felt a wondrous rush of welcome. I was already exhausted when I fell, due to an extended dental appointment the day before, plus a harrying drive home in a snow storm. The traumatic fall and time in the hospital added to my drained feeling. My house and my daughter’s pampering gentled me.

I rested. I also gave a nod toward exercising, but lacked energy to return to my program. At 86, and handicapped, I know that every day I skip exercising, my strength declines.

A visiting nurse stopped in three days later and determined that I would receive a weekly visit for the next two months. She also requested that a physical therapist come for an evaluation.

By the time the therapist came, I was able to muster energy to exercise. She determined that I did not need her services and recommended I continue my exercise routine. I asked to go back to regular PT where I could benefit from the use of machines and guided exercises. She denied my request.

I was disappointed and determined to get back to physical therapy, so I posed the question to the next visiting nurse that stopped in. She agreed that PT was important to help me regain strength and set up a plan to get back in the saddle. I had overcome one obstacle.

I was still challenged with how to overcome my fear that I might spontaneously fall again, especially without any warning. I hadn’t returned to walking outside, and my daughter accompanied me her last two days. The fresh air and knowledge that I could once again be outside lifted my spirits—and my confidence.

I was nervous my first night alone. The following day, I noticed I was thinking less about falling and more about what I could do during the day. I realized I had slipped back into my cautious confidence that I could once more maneuver in my limited world. I also decided it was time to think again about moving to an independent living center.

My brain did some sliding, too. I was back with Bette Davis’ words. Growing old is not for sissies.

By Fay L. Loomis

From: United States