Fall

I have a bad fall. A real bad one. On my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night I step on the clear plastic lid of my green sewing kit. It had been on top of the white hamper in the hall earlier in the evening. But after I go to bed the cat and dog, playing, knock it off. I am asleep when this happens.

I step on the lid with my bad leg, the one that has had seven surgeries on the knee, and together we slide down the hall. I lose my balance, my right foot slams into the jamb of the bathroom door, my head knocks against the hall wall, and both knees buckle as I crash into a large space heater. The heater tips over and my legs fall under my body. I land flat on my back.

My head hurts, my right foot feels like it is wrenched around sideways, both knees are excruciating. I can’t breathe. Unfortunately, this is not a dream. This is as real as it gets. I lie there, stunned, my body fighting off the shock of the fall. It must be around 2 a.m. Contrary to the manufacturer’s instructions, the heater did not shut off when it fell over. It is too far away for me to reach, but I feel around and find the cord. After several attempts I am able to yank the plug out of the wall. Now, on top of everything else, I am cold.

It is more than an hour before I can get up. I do not believe anything is broken but I have pulled muscles in my foot and my groin, there are huge bruises on my back and on both knees, and my right knee, the bad knee, sports an egg sized swelling around the black and purple joint. The knee does not move properly and does not hold my weight. I limp to the couch in the living room and lie there for another hour. Then rage bubbles up and I feel angrier than I have ever felt in my life. I am beyond furious, but there is nothing and no one to direct my rage toward. I scream and yell and cry, but there is no one to hear, no one to be angry at . . . other than life itself.

After a time I slowly make my way to the kitchen to find Advil, ice, and ace bandages. I’ve had injuries before. I understand the RICE concept: rest, ice, compression, elevation. I put pillows under my knees, wrap them in the bandages and top them off with ice. I am worried about the right knee in particular. That leg is uninsurable; after seven surgeries no insurance company will touch it. This could be an expensive fall.

My anger returns and I direct it at our health care system, politicians, insurance companies, the medical profession in general. After all, these are the people and elements that killed my son. By not allowing him the option of health insurance, by not accepting him as a patient without it, by not treating his mental illness and resulting addiction, by turning him away time after time after time, this is what caused my child to die. It has taken me almost five months to get here, but finally, I am angry. Truly angry.

The anger feels real, solid, palpable. I want to hoist it up and fling it at all the apathetic people who refused Colby’s pleas, my pleas, for help, I want to use it to flatten those who told me to give up on Colby, who ignored this bright, talented, sensitive, funny child; who didn’t care that he died, even though it was their job to help him. This anger, I think, will be with me for a while. It is too big, too deep, to go away quickly. I have reached a new stage in this process of grief, and only time will tell if it will cycle back around on this vicious merry-go-round, or whether it will drive me forward, toward peace.