Whoops. Gray lady down!

As part of a routine medical exam, my doctor asked, “Have you fallen in the past 12 months?” I want to be honest with her, but at the same time I feel the need to consider carefully how I answer. 

This could be a loaded question. 

Does “fallen” mean keel over for no apparent reason? Or does it mean taking a header because someone left their shoes in my path and I tripped over them? Will an affirmative answer send me to the X-ray department for a brain scan?

So far, I have not fallen for no apparent reason, knock on wood. However, I have tripped over things in my path — things unexpected that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Not long ago I found myself on the floor weighing the situation. Does anything, other than my pride, hurt? I seem to be OK. No blood. No broken bones. Now, while I’m down here, is there anything I can do, housekeeping-wise? I don't usually have this point of view. Is anything out of place under the couch?

My dear husband, bless his heart, says from the comfort of his easy chair, “Are you alright? What can I do?” My sassy self thinks, “Well, you could pull your feet a little closer to yourself instead of sticking them out in the middle of the floor.”

But the damage is done. I’m still on the floor trying to figure out how not to involve my artificial knee. I’m too afraid to have him try to pull me up, certain we’ll both be down in a pile while our phones are out of reach, preventing us from calling 911.

Who, by the way, would have to bust down the door to get to us, and who wants that embarrassment? We’ll figure it out.

I have seen videos on Facebook showing different ways for those of us who no longer spring right back up after a tumble. Some of the positions require the ability of a contortionist. They really should depict “real” people down — people who are basically sedentary, overweight, retired folks whose only real exercise is going to the bathroom. People who struggle to get out of the chair they’ve been in all morning. To be fair, my people.

Most of the videos seem to focus on strength training and balance and are done by young people without an ounce of fat on them. They stand on one foot and suggest you can touch your fingertips to a wall or countertop for balance if you feel yourself teetering. They don’t use that word.

Walking. There’s a good idea. I’d do that if we had sidewalks and a dog. But we don’t. My grandson invited me to go for a walk with him last summer. I had some flimsy excuse that particular day and he hasn’t asked me again. I appreciated the offer but knew my pace would slow him down way too much. I am more of a stroller than a walker. If he wants to sit in the park and talk, I’m all in. He’s in his early 20s and I’d much rather pick his brain these days.

I am, though, going to give myself a pat on the back, so to speak, because I have dusted off the whatchacallit — oh yeah, treadmill — and started walking a mile each night while watching old reruns of “Frasier.” Thank you very much. It’s a beginning. It’s not jazzercise, Jane Fonda, Elaine Powers, kickboxing or even senior stretch — all of which I’ve tried at one time or another — but it’s time out of my chair, so give me that.

I’ll give those videos another shot at showing me how to get up from a fall without yanking furniture over on me in the process.