When We Fall

Remarkably, I didn't actually break any bones when I was a child, but did seem to be particularly accident prone and consequently became something of a regular visitor to the Whipps Cross Out Patients department, for treatment to all manner of cuts, grazes and gashes - even a dislocated knee-cap (see photo). I still bear various scars on my head, chin and legs to confirm the point. So I fell over a lot, but, like most kids, for the majority of the time at least, I bounced straight back up again. Even at that age though, I was aware of the distinction between me 'falling over' and an older relative 'having a fall'. In contrast to the bumps and bruises I gathered in falling over, I knew that if, for instance, Nan had a fall, it was potentially a much more serious affair.

I would occasionally overhear Mum discussing the worries of an elderly relative's fall in hushed tones with my Aunt, whose family shared our house for the first 12 years of my life. Last Wednesday that Aunt, at 85 now an elderly relative herself, had a fall, slipping on a step in the rain and going down flat on her left side, briefly knocking herself unconscious. Her daughter, my Cousin, now living with her own young family in New York was understandably panic stricken at the news. I quickly ventured down to London in order to assess my Aunt's injuries. Mercifully, in spite of looking as though she's been in a punch-up, her only major injury is a broken wrist - a painful inconvenience for sure, but we're relieved that it wasn't much worse.