By Irene Sardanis

I was naïve that day, totally unaware when I entered the thrift store, the one where I often went to get T-shirts, sweaters, and sweatpants. I grew up in poverty, and my immigrant mother always bargained for fruits and vegetables, so the need for bargains is in my DNA.

On that momentous day, I needed updated sweats. I found a few to try on.

There were no fitting rooms, the clerk said, because of the Covid pandemic. I grabbed a couple of black pants and standing up yoga style, I tried on one of them. Except I had nothing to hold onto and I lost my balance. Bam. I went over to my right side. I didn’t hear the crack when I fell over, but I felt it, and it hurt. After trying to stand up with the staff’s assistance, in too much pain, I gave up.

An ambulance was called, and they drove me to the hospital, where I was set up for surgery the next day. I didn’t know it then, but that day, I died. The me I was before the fall was gone, and the me after the fall was someone I could not see or imagine. I felt my life was over – and in fact, the old life, the me who was active, walked, moved, and danced, was no longer existent, just gone. I had no vision of what I had yet to become. In fact, I thought my life was over, and I’d never walk, run, or do anything physical again. Why would my wonderful husband stay with me? I believed my marriage was over. The vows, for better or worse, felt too bad for him to remain. But I was wrong. My guy was right there with me every step of the recovery process.

It took many physical therapy treatments before I found the courage to use the walker and then the cane to get to the car and drive away. Everything, I mean everything, seemed to take much longer to do the tasks I once did effortlessly.

I had no interest in things I had experienced before – like entertaining, shopping, dining, and, yes, making love. Gone, all of it, gone.

The me who died that day I fell lost her big fat ego. I became humble and grateful—not that I broke my hip, but totally aware of every little thing I took for granted before. I noticed every little thing John did for me—cooking, laundry, shopping, all of it—and I let him know what he meant to me. I left love notes on his desk: “You’re the best cook in the world. Thank you for that delicious pasta dish.”

Gradually, the new me emerged. I learned to shop, cook, and rewash dishes.

Fast forward. I’m still a work in progress. Regretfully, I have fallen a few times – a missed step, an uneven pavement, a lost balance, but no other broken bones, just a bruised knee and arm.

I’ve become a more patient, kind, and caring woman, more thoughtful than I was before.

It’s been a long journey, and I’m still on it.

I play the movie repeatedly and wish I’d never gone to that thrift store that day, but I’m alive and learning to accept this new me, a stranger I’ve grown to accept and respect with all my faults and humanness.

I fell, I got up, I go forward.

Irene Sardanis is a retired psychologist. She resides in Oakland, California. To learn more, visit. irenesardanis.com