When I slipped and fell one recent wintry morning, there wasn’t time to reflect on the late and beloved Dr. Mel Goldstein’s legacy, or his cheerful warnings about our winter weather.
On the other hand, as I tumbled backwards wondering where I would land and in what condition, even then I understood I should have known beforehand. I should have checked.
When I take the puppy out for his morning “business,” as I did on that late December dawn, even he, at the tender age of one year plus, knows to stop and pause at the door to check out nature’s promise and obstacles. He does this in the same manner as Dr. Mel did before every appearance as weathercaster on WTNH.
Yes, the good and perpetually smiling doctor had Doppler at his disposal, and all the tools of modern science. Still, as his turn on camera approached, he went out on the sidewalk at the corner of Elm and State Streets, put his finger in the air to test the wind, and looked up at the sky, trusting his own atmospheric perception and instincts. Just as the puppy does.
Dr. Mel, a native of Massachusetts, said that he was drawn to our weather because of the way it so often hovers at the 32 degree mark in winter, which means that the lines between rain, snow and freezing rain are blurred.
We are not, after all, Vermont, where the snow is often dry and fluffy and playful. This makes forecasting in our state difficult, and for seniors (my category), potentially treacherous.
Odd, how so many considerations, memories and regrets flow through the mind in the midst of a tumble backwards.
What had made me think that, in my slippers instead of my old pair of North Face boots, I could maneuver safely up the icy stairs without taking precautions, without having put on the crampons I received as a gift last year from our son-in-law who treks Antarctica (and communes with penguins)?
In this instance, my foolishness led to a circus act without a net. My feet flew up in front of me, and I deduced in that moment that the result of such acrobatics would mean my noggin would end up somewhere below where my feet were heading. In this, I proved an excellent prognosticator.
BANG. The back of my skull on the left side bounced against the driveway pavement. Even as it did, mind portraits appeared of a scene 20 years ago, when I witnessed a young man jaywalking across Middletown’s Main Street, being hit by car and thrown to the cement head first. He tried to get up, but then, holding his head in pain, he discovered it was not feasible.
I was luckier. I was not knocked out. My head hurt of course. But not as much as my left shoulder, which had bounced on the stairs going down. (If I had been an NFL player, I would have been placed in “concussion protocol.” But as I am a writer, I’ve discovered that concussions prove no impediment in composing pointless essays.)
In any case, the puppy took an interest in my welfare and pressed his nose against mine, apparently attempting to keep me alive until the EMTs arrived.
Though groggy, I was able to get up, bring him inside, and utter to my wife Suzanne, who had not yet made an appearance from under the bedcovers, “YIKES” or words unprintable here.
What followed was a suitable amount of empathy, pity, ice-packing (and irony, no?), Tylenol, steamy oatmeal with raisins and bad television, until the hour arrived when guests came for dinner, and I could enjoy their sympathies.
But seriously, folks, this little tale is meant not only to show my ability to tough it out, a poor measure compared to the way Dr. Mel toughed out all those broadcasts smiling through the pain of multiple myeloma until finally succumbing to his illness in 2012.
It is to warn all fellow seniors of the special challenges of winter for those of us who decided long ago that ice and snow and freezing rain are reasonable substitutes for the considerable hazards of South Florida, and that we are not what we once were.
Stories abound from people we know who have injured themselves, sometimes seriously: fractured arms and legs, concussions, etc.
X-Ray of Murray Moss's ankle, after a fall, and reconstruction.
Our Hamden pals, Franklin Getchell and Murray Moss, sent this advice after Murray had an outdoor fall, though not caused by ice. “If you ever have a clear choice, choose not to break your ankle.” Franklin and Murray hosted at a holiday party, with seniors on the guest list, in which four wheelchairs were placed around the table.
I’m sure I don’t need to bolster my argument to take special care with findings form the Mayo Clinic, but just allow a few points made from up in Rochester, Minnesota, which is a world headquarters for serious injury and even death from seniors falling on the ice.
“This is a direct result of aging,” says Jeremy L. Fogelson, M.D., and the damage is usually more serious. “Brain blood vessels become more fragile, making them much easier to bleed.” Spines and bones, he points out, are more vulnerable, too, in older people.
But somehow we know that already, even if our brains, or at least my brain, still thinks I’m a sturdy fellow.
The Mayo website offers helpful, if obvious, hints as to how to prevent such incidents. These include spreading kitty litter on slipper spots, dressing appropriately [NOT SLIPPERS, you idiot] and even “Use a slower and wider gait to better protect against falls.”
My goal here, as this tumble tale ends, is to help fellow seniors make it safely through until spring, when we can find other ways to make ourselves vulnerable to the nature of aging.
Dr. Mel knew the dangers. Nevertheless, his good cheer helped him live on for many years with an illness that was supposed to kill him in a matter of months.
He loved weather, whatever it was. And I promise to do the same, as I nap near the fireplace.