When a mature tree is felled by a lumberjack, it first tips over slowly and then crashes to the ground with a loud thud. Once the movement begins, it can’t be stopped. Gravity takes over. That’s exactly how I tipped over one Saturday. Having caught my shoe on some obstacle, it was impossible to stop my descent. My face seemed to meet the sidewalk in slow-motion.
It was a lovely sunny early-November noontime. I’d spent the morning helping at my church’s Christmas Fair. The pear pie, cinnamon sauce, and special cookies I’d purchased were in a tote bag and my unneeded gloves were in my pocket. I strolled down the west side of Yonge Street and had just crossed Delisle.
Crash. Having turned my head to the right in time, neither my glasses nor my nose was damaged. My tote bag went flying. Cinnamon sauce was promptly dispersed inside.
Immediately, three or four people stopped and surrounded me.“Oh dear, are you okay?” “Do you want us to help you up?” Having had the wind knocked out of me, I couldn’t answer right away. All I could see was shoes. I tried to breathe. I recognized an Irish accent.
“Thanks. Let me just lie here for a minute,” I slowly murmured. I know that when a person falls down, it’s a natural impulse to get them up right away. But giving the patient a little time to relax and breathe leads to a more positive outcome. They are in shock, after all.
Two men positioned themselves on either side of my prone form. After about 30 seconds, one asked, “Are you ready for us to lift you up now?”
“Yes, please,” I replied and suddenly I was vertical, with tears streaming down my cheeks. Still unable to properly make eye contact with anyone. A voice asked where I was headed. Another offered to call for help to come get me. I didn’t have my cell phone and felt I’d eventually be able to reach my home several blocks away under my own steam. I rolled up my left pantleg to see if my throbbing kneecap was bleeding – skin was scraped, but unbroken. The fleshy base of my left thumb pulsated with pain.
Then a lady and one gentleman left, and the Irishman offered me his arm, walking me over to a concrete planter to sit down. He’d parked his bicycle beside it while doing an errand. We sat for about five minutes, chatting about Ireland while I regained my composure. Likely in his early forties, Ian moved to Toronto in 2013 and works at a bank.
“May I walk you home?”
“You are too kind, but I’ll be alright. Maybe just get me across St. Clair, please?” He took my arm again and we gently strolled south in the sunshine.
“I just turned 80 in June, and this is the first old lady thing I’ve done! And I’m wearing sensible shoes.”
“Yes, you’re not in stilettoes. I’m a June baby, too,” Ian said.
“I’m June 6th.”
“Really? I’m June 5th! We’re clearly related.” Thanking him profusely, we parted on the next corner.
Ian was my guardian angel – briefly touching my life in my hour of need and then vanishing. As I relive the moment when I lay on the sidewalk hearing total strangers talk about me – unable to respond or see their faces – I wonder if that’s how it feels to be in a coma or even dying.
Others nearby are concerned about your welfare and all you need to do is relax and absorb the love.