A View from the Fall

It could have happened to anyone. On July 1st, I fell down a thirty foot embankment in Sherman Oaks while clipping yellow roses, and I shattered my tibial plateau. That’s the place where your tibia connects to the underside of your kneecap: a lesson in anatomy I never wanted, yours for free. And it wasn’t even my rose garden. I’ll get to that in a minute.

But it didn't happen to anyone. It happened to me, and since my mother always said “a crisis is a terrible thing to waste,” I needed to get my pen moving to uncover the fullness of what happened and integrate it into my understanding of my new self, which comes with 4 screws and a metal plate. (Fun airport security awaits.)

Here’s what the pen revealed on the pages of my journal.

Yes, it was an accident. But I also fell because I overdo it.  When I headed down the slippery garden path, shears in hand, I felt that old, familiar longing, that need to impress. Artfully arrange the cheese plate. Drizzle the brie with honey. Clean the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Decorate with freshly cut flowers.

Or am I being unfair? After all, I had cut roses earlier in the week when I was alone at the house. Long stem roses make me happy, whether or not a friend is stopping by; there’s nothing wrong with that. 

But, still, I overdo it: the flowers were not mine to cut, and besides, the nearly 360-degree mountain views brought enough beauty into the home. 

Why couldn’t I have just fed the dogs, given them their meds, and left the rest alone, like a regular dog sitter? A few days prior, I had to walk the pups when the owners had clearly said it wasn’t necessary. I had to repot their dying succulent, accidentally breaking off an ornamental gnome from the rim of the planter—a sign of bigger breaks to come? I had to clean out their refrigerator, tossing out 30 jars growing mold that any eighth grade scientist would kill for. (I not only counted the jars, but I took pictures of them, which now, after the fall, seems very silly.)

I suppose these were “nice” things to do, but look where “nice” landed me: In a wheelchair for eight weeks. The tiny gnome on the planter could have held sentimental value—I bet one of their kids spent a week crafting it in ceramics class. The dogs’ leashes were threadbare and knotted; they could have easily torn on our morning walks through the canon, leaving me to make the dreaded call to panicked owners on a European vacation.

Window washing? Me? I put in more streaks in than I take out. And who messes with someone else’s rotten food? I can barely deal with my own.

And so, the epiphanies of my fractured tibial plateau are:

1. STOP OVERDOING IT. Let well enough alone–especially when it comes to O.P.B.: Other People’s Belongings.

2. GET OVER THE NEED TO IMPRESS–MYSELF OR OTHERS. Surround myself with beauty, yes, but recognize when interfering goes against common sense, or is simply unnecessary (See #1).

3. PAY ATTENTION. I could have noticed that the thin, railroad tie steps along the banked incline didn’t have a railing. I could have avoided that area, stuck to the other acre of property not beckoning a fall. That one’s hard to admit.

4. SLOW DOWN. There’s a good to great chance I was admiring the view while clipping the roses. I remember looking at the hills at dusk, dotted with sparkling swimming pools and tiny white lights. Clipping roses while taking in the view ain’t nobody’s business.

A View from the Fall. Photo by Jennifer Nassar Dohr. Title by (mostly) Arthur Miller.

So there you have it: my look-see what went wrong.

And yet, personal accountability doesn’t tell the full story. Steps five feet off the ground should come with a lifeline. Railroad ties should be standard width. Not to mention, roses are meant to be cut and enjoyed, not left to wither on the bush. 

Like almost always in life, my fall was a “Yes, and…” moment. I experienced bad luck AND I was negligent. I do too much AND I need to surround myself with beauty. I move too quickly AND the steps need a railing.

I guess my job is to learn what I can from my side of the garden path. 

Perhaps that’s what every accident is: a chance to take stock of what’s a fluke and what we set ourselves up to encounter. It’s painful and vulnerable to think like this, but it’s the path (I mean, AND it’s the path) to self-awareness—and to fewer visits to USC Keck Hospital.

I wonder if all accidents can be broken down (pun intended) in this light. When our toddler bit open his tongue in the bathtub? I should have installed a rubber mat. When our five year-old lodged a quarter in her esophagus? We shouldn’t have allowed her to play with coins. My son’s broken collar bone? Teach a thirteen year-old not to night skate on unlit streets while attached, by bungee cord, to his best friend’s bicycle. Downhill.

“Accidents happen,” they say. I didn’t plan to hijack my summer. But I’m still accountable for a thing or two.

I’m not trying to play the blame and shame game. I’m just a woman with “internal fixation,” literally and metaphorically, trying to understand how this all went down.

I figured it out by picking up my pen to “WJAW it out”: Write the Worst Junk in All the World. I needed to examine myself on the page to understand the fullness of my experience and see if I want to change. (I do.)

Automatic writing always shows me what I need to acknowledge about myself—especially when I don’t want to look.

I’m tempted to hide, to shout from the rooftops, “IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” and be done with it. But the pen tells another story.

I mean, AND the pen tells another story.