This Too is Mexico

   I start with a screwed up syllogism:

                        Most old people fall at one time or another

                        I am an old person 

                        About ten days ago I fell on my way home from an errand

 
   I was walking home on Holbein, a close-by familiar street I have used frequently and fell not very far from the house. I have no idea what got me to wind up on the ground.  I probably caught my foot on one of the irregularities in the sidewalk. I was wholly disoriented, for all practical purposes, unconscious, I don’t know for how long.

   The next thing I knew were (son-in-law) Miguel and (granddaughter) Eva picking me up, soon joined by (daugher) Ellie. I was next loaded into the car and Miguel drove to the very modern Hospital Español. It was Saturday afternoon and the Emergency Room seemed not to be very busy. At any rate, a crew of medics proceeded to take an inordinate number of X-rays of my chest. They also scanned my head, which had a bloody bump. Besides a few additional scrapes that remained unremarked, the verdict was that there was no harm to my head—at least not to its inside—but that two of my ribs were cracked. It was noted, as well, that my right hearing aid was gone.

   For what I trust were sound medical reasons, my ribs were not taped. Upon my request I was given two Tylenols, which helped if nowhere near enough. I had heard that broken ribs hurt (I suppose there are a lot of nerves, in this case on the back.) The rumors were correct. Gingerly, I stretched out in my bed; there were not a lot of alternatives. Of course, the restaurant lunch that had been planned became a home-made meal.

   Now go back to the scene of that mega-mishap. How did my family come to rescue me? And by all accounts quite quickly. It turned out that a passer-by who  saw me go down, fished the cell phone out of my pocket, where she found the telephone number of the house on Atlanta. She called it and the family promptly showed up. I never actually saw my savior and thus did not thank her. My family assured me that of course they did.

   While things did not quickly return to normal for me—as I said, the rumors about broken ribs are accurate—I could get a check to Ellie so that she could order a replacement for the missing hearing aid from Costco, which had been their source. It would arrive in a week or so and would promptly be programmed so that I could use it. But then . . . .

   The next Saturday, a week after the event, Ellie suggested I get a bit of exercise by accompanying her to their dry cleaner, down the street on Holbein. She proposed that I stay out in the pleasant sun, while she went inside to get her clothes. Almost immediately after she emerged from the store, one of the dry-cleaning people also came out into the street. He saw me and also noted that I was related to his long-time customer.  Further, he saw that I was the guy who fell somewhere near there and quickly realized that the hearing aid he had picked up on the scene of the accident belonged to me.  So, quite unexpectedly, I got my second hearing aid back. Now we have to see whether Costco is willing to cancel the order for its replacement and refund the payment therefor.

   My recovery may not be fast, but it is ongoing. However, since I don’t really know just how I came to fall, I’m also quite unsure, alas, how to avoid in the future the fate predicted by that nasty syllogism.