Though I find it impossible to believe, I’ll turn 65 in June. But until recently, I haven’t noticed much decay — I felt as strong, fit and capable as I was 20 or 30 years ago. But hard as it is to accept, in the last year or two, I have begun to note changes for the worse, as osteoarthritis robbed my joints and bones of their suppleness. A rigid and rickety spine makes it hard to right myself if I lose my balance, and my stiff, inflexible feet do not firmly grip the ground. For decades, I have walked for miles most days (read my earlier post about my twice-daily largely-pedestrian commute), so have necessarily monitored these unwelcome developments closely!
To add to my challenges, I’ve gradually increased my working hours, so most of the winter, I’m walking to and from the train in pitch-black darkness. Our town is hilly, and many sidewalk slabs are upended by the roots of huge old trees. All these factors are a recipe for disaster for an aging commuter like myself.
And well did I know all this! So Tuesday evening, when I felt my body somehow launch from a forward trajectory to a downward one, my first reaction was to blame myself. I was rushing, I was careless, I was an aging hag who should be ashamed of herself. My mother’s word would have been ‘hacked’ — by which she meant mad, frustrated and upset, mostly at herself. Boy, was I ‘hacked.’
A fellow commuter rushed over to be sure I was okay (I wasn’t, but I pretended), and solicitously walked me home as I held my blood-gushing chin in my hand. The next day, returning home after my diagnosis and treatment, I discovered a bloody hand print on the front door, like something from a slasher movie. Only then did it begin to dawn upon me that I’d suffered not just an accident, but a real trauma.
Linnetontheleaf 
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