Splat!

Yesterday I woke up feeling like a whole vial of bacteria had been poured upon me. My throat was extremely sore and my body was achey and more fatigued than usual. I took my temperature and it was low grade: 99.7 degrees. Illness aggravates my multiple sclerosis; I was not ready to go out and dance. I had made an appointment with my internist for another reason - my sleeplessness - but I think the universe planned the virus to arrive when it did.

After I left my class, I was walking to my doctor's office. As I crossed Wabash Avenue my legs suddenly decided not to function and I crashed to the pavement. My books and water went all over the street and drivers began honking their car horns because I had fallen when the light changed.

My husband has a bad attitude when it comes to strangers and life itself, believing the worse in everybody. How I wish he had been there with me when I had fallen. Three strangers, despite the drivers honking and other drivers driving around me, came to may aid. They helped me up and repeatedly asked if I was all right. One thought I had passed out. My ego more than my knees and palms (as a childhood gymnast and dancer I know the proper way to fall) was bruised, so I embarrassedly told them that I was just fine.

One man helped me up and told me to sit down in Starbucks so I could catch my breath. He wrapped his arm around me waist and asked me if I had felt faint. I told him that I have MS and sometimes my legs decide they don't want to work anymore. He walked inside with me, helped he sit down because, as embarrassed as I was, I felt shaky. He asked if I wanted a glass of water. I told him no and thanked him for his concern.

I wish I hadn't been embarrassed. I should have considered myself blessed. People still do care for other people. My husband, the cynic, still thought the men had other motives in mind. I don't believe that. Who would be attracted to a woman, who has a visible runny nose, that just fell knee first onto Wabash Avenue?

Today my sore throat has taken my voice and purple and magenta bruises are on my knees and the palm of my right hand. My legs and arms are weak. My cognition is like a frayed wool sweater. But I have been through worse, and I appreciate that strangers cared enough to help me. I also appreciate that I, as my deceased Godmother often said, come from strong peasant stock. As an artist, one does need that fighting spirit.

For my husband.