Long Way Down
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday August 16, 2014

I have met my nemesis. The staircase in our house is wooden and slippery. The risers are too steep, the treads too short. I have to be sure-footed to negotiate the niggardly winders that concertina around the 90-degree corner. All three kids’ bedrooms are at the top of the stairs. To reach the summit, I step over a succession of soggy towels, dumped school uniforms and lately, a deflating World Cup soccer ball.

Late at night, with husband away on business, I padded upstairs in my woolly socks to check on sleeping children. Alfie the cat was sprawled on middle son’s bed, creating furballs on my best cornflower blue blanket. (I should have known a stray kitten with a Hitler moustache was going to be trouble). I scooped him up and headed downstairs.

Halfway down, Alfie sensed he was about to be imprisoned in a frigid laundry for the night. Squirming to free himself, he leapt out of my arms. My socked right foot slid out from under me. Down I went, smashing the bony cleft between two dainty buttocks on the edge of the step.

A ramrod of pain shot from bum to brain, and I passed out. Seconds later (or was it minutes?) I came to at the foot of the stairs, right arm twisted, left leg splayed at an unflattering angle. I lay frozen in fright, holding my breath, pelvis throbbing. I wasn’t sure if I was rigid from the spasms or from shock.

At last, the pounding subsided to an ache and I hoisted myself off the floor and hobbled into the bathroom. Dithering in front of the mirror, I tested various movements to see which ones hurt the most. I could twist far enough around to examine the lump now gracing my tailbone. A big blue bruise bloomed on my arm. Satisfied I’d escaped breakages, I took two Panadol and hirpled off to bed.

Six fitful hours later, I rolled over and planted my feet on the carpet. I stood up and winced, legs unsteady as my rear began throbbing anew. I rotated in front of the mirror, lifting up my nightie to greet two moons mid-eclipse: my derriere now shadowed by a cauliflower-shaped bruise. For the next week, I watched my technicolour rump turn from mulberry to magenta to un-mellow yellow.

I dreamt about falling. Falling off escalators, falling from great heights, falling into a wheelchair. I woke up one morning realising I am no longer invincible.

In my twenties, I talked glibly about hating my tummy (round), shoulders (broad), my calves (muscly).

Now I don’t care a jot about being short-waisted or flat-footed. It’s my eyes I’m worried about. And my creaky knees and crepey neck. The start of jowls. The liver spots taking up residence on the backs of my hands. Bunions? I think I have a couple. Bunions! I can apply ugly words to most of my deteriorating body.

I used to read books in bed in semi-darkness. Now I can barely read a street sign until I’m parked underneath one. I need a magnifying glass to thread a needle. I’m forever saying, to no-one in particular: “Have you seen my glasses?” I find them on the laundry bench – I must have been folding the washing. On the shampoo shelf in the shower – I forgot I had them on.

For safe-keeping, I clamp my glasses on top of my head, but then they flop onto my nose when I’m vacuuming or unpacking the groceries. I spook myself when the world becomes even blurrier through smudged lenses. I refuse to hang my specs on a chain around my neck, but it’s only a matter of time.

I’m not ready for my body to start clapping out. The hearing in my left ear is sub-normal. Not bad enough for a hearing aid but bad enough for me to repeat ‘Pardon?’ to a teenager who talks with his back turned while Mythbusters is blaring on the telly.

He cheered when I booked in for a hearing test. He was equally sympathetic when I arrived home chastened by my sub-sonic results. “Can you hear me?” he whispered.

“Very funny,” I deadpanned, and pushed a roast dinner towards him. “If you get to 46 and all that’s wrong with you is one deaf ear, you’ll be grateful.”

He mimed a “yada, yada, yada,” then mouthed a silent “Pass the gravy, mother bear!”

I banged my fist on the table, hoping the shock would wipe the grin off his face. It didn’t.

In the end, it took a fortnight for my rump to recover. I’m now ascending and descending the stairs like a crone, gripping the handrail and purposefully guiding my feet. My body may have delivered decades of faithful service but I think my warranty just ran out.