We Do Not Slip and Fall. Ever.

I spent much of my life in a mode of awareness primarily because I was once in technical capacities in the theatre and on the road. For me, because I was a high rigger, there was always a mixture of regular humans and professionals around me at all times. I learned early to be aware and never assume. This means that while I was confident and fast, I was constantly aware of smart but average human behavior. Also cats these days. Nobody needs to fuel their paranoia around me. Just because I am disabled, and I do use a walker, does not at any time mean that I’m going to fall over. The chances of my being unaware of my surroundings is nil.

I know there are carpets by the bed. I know they can cause slip and fall, but they don’t because I know how to work around them. While they must be there for others, they would be a hazard for me except for the fact that I always, always step around them. And shoes. And blankets on the floor.

The same is true for constant water splashes, especially on the bathroom floor, sink, and stool and the kitchen floor, counter, and sink. I see them. Always. I clean them up. Always. Why? Because I’m not going to slip and fall. I’m not going to have an accident based on simple average human activity, mine or anyone else’s.

I was a sort of anomaly for rehab people when I had them. They were wonderful with helping me correct some manipulation processes after a half dozen strokes and some brain injury, but they were surprised with my strengths and abilities. One even said that I was uncommon. (Ya think?) By all means, he said, keep it up.

I’m nearing 70, but I’m not old. I’m pretty sharp, actually. And fecking independent. I’ve always been independent.

I wrote a new passage yesterday. I found new history. My family goes back in, the US to before 1620. In Boston. Through the family who married into the Halls, the Niles. Marilla Niles was a great-grandmother. Penelope was her daughter, and married to Benedict Arnold. Yes, that Benedict. The things I keep finding!

Then there’s that other gem, my 8th great-grandfather James Clyde born in Edinet, Moldova, Ukraine in 1759. He was supposedly Ashkenazi. I have no idea how this all came about. Actually, I’m pretty sure there was a mistake. Or two…