It’s said, from old times, that “pride comes before a fall”: in my case, carelessness and haste precede a fall, and I mean that quite literally.
Hanging on a doorknob at home was a soft backpack handy for shopping, its straps trailing down in the shape of a noose. On Christmas Eve, as I was rushing out to Mass, I caught my foot neatly in its entanglement and was sent flying into a hard fall to the ground. There’s a split second when you know you are about to fall and you also know, within that second, that there’s nothing to save you. It must be like that tumbling out of an airplane or toppling over from a ledge.
I cried out as I hit the ground, feeling my prosthetic hip dislodge from its mooring. Then I just lay there for a while, stunned (and swearing like a trouper, alas). Eventually, I managed to get to my feet with the help of two nearby walking sticks, and for the 12 days of the festive season I hobbled around dolorously. No, I didn’t think it worth troubling A & E (and probably to lie on a hospital trolley for 24 hours), though I did get booked in for an X-ray to check out the damage to the prosthetics.
You learn something from everything in life. Being a hobbler on crutches or sticks slows you down and makes you take your time: no bad thing, to stop and stare. It resigns you to accepting the things you cannot accomplish: I had to cancel meetings with friends and other pleasant events, but what you cannot do, you cannot do. Fortunately, I was spending Christmas with cousins who were immensely kind to me, and accepting their hospitality and care was a blessing.
I had to ask strangers for help, too. That can be strangely rewarding – young people (who are evidently the strongest and most able) are often pleased to help out with any carrying or onerous physical task, and after they have done so, they walk away feeling a little better about themselves. To request assistance, in a way, is to confer a benefit.
And “you don’t miss the water until the well runs dry”. I came to reflect on the gift of mobility. How marvellous it is to be able to walk, run and move about without let or hindrance. How restricted our lives become when mobility becomes a problem, and the simplest activity – just taking a country walk or a promenade by the sea – is a big challenge. I also thought a lot more about the afflictions my late husband faced as the effect of a stroke gradually removed all his mobility.
Finally, instead of considering myself unlucky for my falling mishap, I came to see it as an eye-opener: caused by my own carelessness, it prompted me to count my blessings, even as I hobbled on.
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Some people feel critical, or even angry, that hospitals charge patients and visitors for parking. During 2016, hospitals in England received £120 million in parking fees, while such charges have been in abolished in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.
But if we motorists can afford a car – and heaven knows the roads are congested enough with vehicles – why shouldn’t we pay for parking in a hospital space? The NHS is always in crisis, always strapped for cash, so isn’t such revenue a worthy contribution to a good cause?
No doubt there are always hard cases which deserve special exemption, but generally it seems to me to be perfectly reasonable that if you can afford a car, you can afford the hospital parking fee.
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As George Orwell knew, language is political – and cultural. In Ireland, there are two ways currently used to describe a pregnancy in which the infant in utero has a serious illness or disability. One phrase is “fatal foetal abnormality”. The other is “life-limiting condition”. “Fatal foetal abnormality” proclaims that the baby cannot live. “Life-limiting condition” says we do not know exactly what the diagnosis may bring.
A person’s values can be discerned by whichever phrase they use – and whichever phrase comes to prevail will tell us much.
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