In past articles, I’ve shared many aspects of my life: emotional highs and lows. I’ve shared my physical attributes and disabilities, and I’ve shared philosophical and personal opinions on matters about which, most of the time, I knew nothing.

You’ve been patient and appreciative as I weave the stories of my life, both past and present. You’ve been privy to much about my life, but you’ve never seen this next tale because it’s a first for me.

I’ve written about every time I’ve fallen, after which, and sometimes while still sprawled on the ground, I find my clumsiness funny and desire to share my warped, self-deprecating humor with you. Being a “senior citizen”, I can either feel sorry for myself or find humor in the circumstances surrounding my decline in physical acuity and balance. I’m all about the latter. The following is different, however, in that I didn’t fall “down”, I instead fell “out.” Out of my bed.

You ask, and rightly so, “That’s it?” Some of you might be saying, “Big deal. I fall out of bed two or three times a week.” Yes, but understand, during my 77 years of life, I’ve never fallen out of bed.

I’ve fallen onto the bed. As a child, I fell off a bed that I was jumping up and down on after being told repeatedly not to. The punishment for that last stunt was more painful than the contact my butt made with the floor.

Not even at the YMCA summer camp did I find myself crumpled on the unforgiving and unsanitary floor of our barracks.

There are a couple of versions of the incident, as well as my theory of the event. First off, let’s start with my version as I remember it.

I don’t recall anything except lying on the floor, no doubt with a dazed and bewildered look on my face, as Nancy rushed in, panicked, to my side. Later, she would say she

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thought I had another heart attack. My version has me jumping to my feet, placing clenched fists on either side of my hips, and heroically laughing as if nothing had happened. The reality is that I lay there, unsure what had happened. I sensed panic in Nancy’s demeanor. I surmised her panic stemmed from how to get a beached whale back into the water.

I did NOT JUMP to my feet. When I tried to pull myself back onto the bed, I discovered that my right knee and back were emitting what I can only describe as a ten on the 1 to 10 pain charts.

One being “Ouch,” to ten being “THAT REALLY SMARTS!!” That’s when I knew that getting back into bed might be the equivalent of keeping Brady (our 130lb lab/Newfoundland mix) from swallowing a Yak whole. Possible, but highly improbable.

It was either call the fire department, spend the night on the floor with Fiona (Collie), or make the effort to get myself back into bed. Believing that the laughter of the first responders would be humiliating enough, and having Fiona breathing in my face, I opted for the struggle of returning to bed.

About thirty minutes later, after much struggle, shouts of agony, and without the aid of pain medication or a shot of Irish whiskey, I was once again in the comfort and sanctity of my bed.

Nancy’s version is pretty much the same, except she has me rendering myself unconscious from hitting my head on the side table by the bed. Also, she pointed out that I had a dribble of saliva falling from the side of my mouth. Why that’s pertinent, I haven’t a clue, except it lends to a bit more drama. Also, why there were invisible impressions of a pair of feet in the middle of my back remains an unsubstantiated and unverifiable mystery.

Trust me, I am not making fun of falling or people who fall. Tumbling with the potential of serious injury is not in the least bit humorous. However, I reserve the right to laugh at myself and invite my readers to join me.

Until the next time, may your guardian angel soften the blows that life may assail you with, and provide you with the best medicine of all: a sense of humor.