Summary

A man recounts his harrowing experience of falling down the stairs, accompanied by a chest of drawers, leading to a series of injuries and a humorous yet poignant interaction with medical personnel and his wife, Jenny.

Abstract

The author describes an unexpected tumble down a staircase, which results in a collision with a chest of drawers, causing significant injuries. As he lies on the ground, he hears his wife's concern for the newly painted walls rather than his well-being. Paramedics arrive to tend to his wounds, informing him of a broken thigh and the possibility of not feeling any sensation in his right leg. Despite the situation's gravity, the man remains chatty, attributing his demeanor to pain medication, though his wife insists it's just his personality. The narrative unfolds with a mix of dark humor and introspection, highlighting the author's relationship dynamics with his wife, his resilience in the face of pain, and the peculiar interactions with the medical team, including a request for a port and lemon drink and a spontaneous rendition of "Roses of Picardy." The story concludes with the author's recovery plans and a promise to return to his audience on Medium, all while dealing with his wife's unique form of revenge.

Opinions

The author downplays the severity of the situation with humor, referring to himself as a "gold medalist" in falling down stairs.
He reflects on his own stubbornness and the irony of ignoring advice, which may have prevented the accident.
The author seems to appreciate his wife's unique character, despite her less-than-nurturing response to his injury.
He perceives the medication as enhancing his chatty nature, while his wife disagrees, suggesting that his talkative personality is inherent.
The author expresses a somewhat fatalistic view of the accident, accepting the situation with a sense of humor and resignation.
He maintains a sense of camaraderie and connection with the medical staff, even in his altered state of consciousness.
The request for a port and lemon indicates a desire for

In answer to a question, you’ve all been asking

Well, one or two of you, maybe.

Port and Lemon snooze | Image by the author

There were more steps in our staircase than I had previously thought, steeper. The reason I know this is falling backward down them, quickly followed by a chest of drawers in which the drawers were still closed, well they were closed at the top. I didn’t do a couple of things like asked: wait till my son gets here, and two, take the drawers out. I would have been competent at many things had I listened to advise. That’s bollocks, actually.

It’s a neat thing hearing my wife screaming at me while I’m still bumping down the stairs on my back, looking at my feet above my head. She was remarking, loudly, about the freshly painted walls. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the rest of it. It went conspicuously dark.

When I came around, a guy knelt, tending to the left side of my skull. I had enough mind to wonder why there is a gash on the side of my head when I fell backward. The answer, as explained, was seemingly the late arrival of the chest of drawers.

I was twice a gold medalist at falling down some stairs, beginning at age sixteen, the first time on Tobermory harbor, and donated my chips to the seagulls. Then again aboard Sirius, a Greenpeace ship, both times quite brilliantly.

The man tending to my skull explained that I might not feel any sensation in my right leg, which was funny because I couldn’t feel much of anything in any part of my body.

You’ve broken your thigh; we’ve given you something to help with the pain. True enough, I was in no pain and felt quite chatty.

It’s just the medication but he wasn’t talking to me. Jenny said, no, it’s him. He’s always got something to say.

Jenny wasn’t freaking out, praying, or asking the medic if I would be okay. Her face did, however, look a little gloomy. I didn’t aim substance-induced chatter at Jenny, fearing it would dissolve into a difficult dialogue of, I fucking told you so, if I was to ask about the chest of drawers. Having waited six weeks for delivery and costing $1800. But even under the influence of cocaine, or whatever pain-relieving substance I’d received, it’s better not to interrupt when Jenny offers to tell a truth, even in the middle of a problematic scenario, it’s rarely going to end amicably.

Jenny is a most remarkable woman, with style all her own. It’s just, well, I push a little hard against her compassion gene occasionally.

Another man appears like a shadow walking across the ceiling, pushing what I think is mobile transport. I’ll take his head, Ron. I felt lifted out of my body. In that instance, I was standing at Leicester Square tube station, singing Roses of Picardy.

As of this moment, I cannot swear I did that. I recall the medic telling me the song was one of his mother’s favorites.

Please don’t leave yet; I’ve forgotten my purse. It was Jenny. My injuries weren’t reason enough for a life and death dash to wherever the ambulance was taking me. It’s okay; we will give him a little more for his pain.

What damn pain?

There came a veil of translucent light covering my eyes until they cleared, and an older woman stood looking down on me. Her hair was grey, tied up under a net, and wearing a mask under a face shield. It was all a little hazy, I recall.

Hello, I said, I’ll have a large port and lemon.

Do you know your name? I knew then; she was at once attracted to me. I’m married, I said. The voice coming from the mask was less than comforting. Yes, because most married men don’t listen to good advice. Do you know what day it is? I thought for a moment, and said, I’m late for the train.

Yes, dear, the woman said, holding my wrist. Are you in any pain?

No. Is my port and lemon coming?

Yes, dear. You can drink it on the way to surgery. There might be a little more port than lemon in this one.

Jenny leaned over and kissed me. Do you know the words to the song Roses of Picardy? I asked. There’s time to sing it before the train comes.

Hush, honey. You’ve broken the ‘A’ pin you have inserted in your right thigh. We are concerned about your neck, and you have dislocated your shoulder.

None of those are in the version I know, Jenny, listen. I started singing. But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy,’ Tis the rose that I keep in my heart. I sang.

Yes, love, I’ll see you soon, okay.

Meet me at Gloucester Road, okay?

The train left the station and soon, I was in the tunnel.

Jenny was in hysterics telling me the story of my substance-induced chatter on the way to the hospital. I’ve relayed it to you exactly as she remembers.

I want to apologize to all you beautiful friends here on Medium, who may have wondered where the old fart is or perhaps felt ignored, not having been subjected to my usual crudeness. I’ll do my best to make it up to you while lying in my bed, with Jenny treating me to her choice of what is good food and parading about in new lingerie.

Jenny can be a spiteful bugger when she wants to exact revenge.

Please don’t enquire as to how I’m feeling. I dislike sentiment.

I’ll be back.