I’m sure I fell too many times to count as a kid. Those falls are not memorable; in fact, I recall only one. I leapt from a giant dirt pile at school, back when kids were allowed to leap from 15-foot dirt piles to land in 5 feet of soft soil, back when kids could get dirty, even at school.

One leap left me with grit embedded in a knee. I still remember my teacher working the little rocks out one at a time. Though bloody and painful, I survived. And returned to flight off the pile.

Our daily recess escapades left my friends and me with dusty ankles. The dirt pile was the type that dump trucks create by backing up and unloading one truckload after another for fill dirt. We tamped down makeshift stairs into the side of it, and ran as fast as we could to leap off the end to land calf-deep in soft dirt, jump up, run to the steps and do it again.

The goal was to get in as many jumps as possible before the end of recess. It was a blast! No adults complained. Noone erected fences around the dirt pile to keep us out. No major injuries occurred.

Our only instructions were to dust off before returning to the classroom. And if we dragged in a bunch of dirt on our shoes, we were required to clean up after ourselves. Those were important lessons in consideration for others.

Recently, I learned that falls taken as an adult are not as fun, and the price to play is far higher.

On a routine dog walk in our little community, I tripped over my own feet and fell forward with my full body, landing face down on the asphalt. I put out my left hand on the way down to catch myself. That was a mistake, of course. I injured my hand and did not stop the fall or make the landing any less painful.

I learned the visceral definition of having the wind knocked out of me as I lay in the road, wheezing weirdly as I tried to tell my husband I couldn’t talk.

The thought of the wild wheezing now makes me laugh so hard that I nearly had another issue that plagues many women of my certain age and women living with Multiple Sclerosis. LOL.

My dear husband was asking if he should call 911, what he could do to help, what I needed, and if I was okay.

I could not answer him. All I could do was wheeze in a way that sounded like Carl, the Minion. “Bee-do, bee-do, bee-do.” But with “Ws.”

“Whee-woo, whee-woo, whee-woo.”

My hand and knee were scraped and bloody; I wondered if I would need to pick little rocks out of my skin like my teacher had that day in elementary school. But being unable to breathe was the concern. My ribs hurt. I knew only time would make that ease off.

The dogs’ leashes had dropped out of my hands, but my sweet pups were standing next to me, looking down at me with concern. I wanted to tell them what good boys they are.

Suddenly, I pointed frantically; a car was coming fast. I was lying in the road in a shaded place and knew the driver could not see me.

My husband looked up and flagged the driver to slow down. Thank God, the literal Creator, that my husband was with me that day.

Once breath returned to my lungs, I slowly rolled to one side, then the other, figuring out the least painful, most effective way to get on my feet. Getting up was so much easier as a kid.

We finished our brief walk at my insistence. I refused to give up and give in.

Since my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis in 2004, I am determined to walk every step that I can. Every step is precious to me. A step that I take today might mean a step I still get to take in the future.

Once home, we assessed the damage: no obvious broken bones, some raw road rash on my hand and knee, sore ribs on the left side, and breathing normally again.

Would I be able to type with that injured hand?

Surgeons insure their hands for huge amounts of money because that is how they make a living and how they fulfill their calling as healers.

What about our healing hands, Writer Friends?

It was my first injury since claiming my identity as a Writer. My hands have become even more valuable to me, not monetarily, but writing is how I find out what I think and how I feel. They are part of how I encourage others.

What would I do without my hands?

I guess I would become thankful for dictation software in a hurry.

That fall did not require a visit to the ER, though it would have been wise. I hadn’t hit my head, and apparently, that is how I determined if an ER visit was needed.

Thankful that I was in decent condition, I got back to living life, though tenderly and with a bit more caution.

The question nagged at me; why had I fallen? And more concerning; why didn’t I step forward to prevent the fall?

Was damage to my neurons, caused by Multiple Sclerosis, interfering with the signals from my brain to my body that would normally cause me to take that step forward to save myself? Was it a sign of declining reflexes? THAT scared me.

I called my neurologist. She saw me right away, evaluated how my body was functioning, didn’t find any significant issues (thank God, again), ordered MRIs, and referred me to a Vestibular Therapist.

My highly qualified neurologist’s genuine care and concern eased my panic. I knew I was going to be okay, no matter what changes might be coming.

I also knew that my husband and I might face another new normal soon. But we are great as a team and have tackled hard things throughout our nearly 30 years together. We knew we would draw even closer together and do our best.

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We knew we would encourage and uplift each other and include daily laughter to make it all a little easier to handle.

I wish that was the end of the falling saga. It was just the beginning.

The next fall made me incredibly grateful. More on that in my next post, coming soon.