Vol. 160: My perfect storm

I fell off my bike, and then...

On January 19, I was bicycling to my office in central Philadelphia, just as I’ve done for more than 50 years. It’s the fastest, healthiest, cheapest, least-polluting way to travel downtown, and in any case my trip covers only seven city blocks, and I always wear a helmet. When people asked why on Earth an 83-year-old man would commute by bicycle, I invariably replied, “You’ve got to hang out with more macho men.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop? Read on.

On January 19, while biking to my office, I slipped on the ice, fell off my bike, and broke a bone in my ankle.

Fortunately, no auto traffic was behind me. In just such an icy scenario in New York six years ago, our friend Daniel Cammerman, a beloved pediatrician to hundreds of New York kids, including two of my grandchildren, was killed at the age of 50 as he biked across the icy Central Park transverse from his Central Park West home to his Park Avenue office.

Dr. Cammerman’s benevolent shadow has accompanied me ever since, reminding me that I can’t take my mind off my bike even for an instant. Except that in this instant, obviously, I did.

A house with 34 steps

Two pedestrians helped me get back up. I was clueless about the extent of my injuries, which didn’t seem so bad. After the spill, I simply climbed back on my bike and continued to my office. Only when I got there and told my wife what had happened did I relent, at her insistence, and head for my podiatrist‘s office, three blocks away. (How did I get there? I honestly don’t remember.)

Since then, I’ve been largely confined to my home while clomping around in a boot on my left foot and walking with the aid of a cane. I leave home only to visit doctors— for X-rays, MRIs, EKGs, the whole alphabet soup schmear. I haven’t been to my office since the accident. I haven’t even climbed to the top floor of my house, where my desktop computer and printer sit. (Thank God for laptops and iPhones.) When I shower, I must wrap my foot in a plastic bag to keep it dry. I’m in discomfort but no real pain, other than a huge pain in the ass from this situation.

For 43 years, Barbara and I have lived in a five-level townhouse that we love more with each passing year, despite its 34 steps from bottom to top. It’s too narrow to accommodate an elevator or a stairlift, but we’ve been exploring other ways to age in place— extra bannisters?— on the theory that climbing stairs is good exercise. Now, suddenly, we’re thinking: Fuck that shit. Whether we move to an apartment, a condo, a senior community, or a nursing home, just get us the hell out of here to a single floor, the sooner the better.

Oh, did I mention that my literary agent retired in December, and my accountant retired in January, just at the start of tax season? Is this what they call a perfect storm?

I feel like the fellow in the joke who loses his job, then finds his wife in bed with another man, then sees his child snatched by kidnappers. He ducks into a church to pray, while asking, “Why me? Why is all this happening to me?” Suddenly the heavens open, and an ethereal voice replies, “Some guys just piss me off.”

The day I became an old man?

My father kept in shape into his 90s by teaching ballroom dancing and folk dancing at International House in New York, a residence for graduate students where he ran the cultural programs. But when he was 88, he encountered a similar scary setback. Losing his vision in one eye, he sought a cure at the National Eye Institute in Washington. The night before, after packing his bag for the journey, he tripped over it in the middle of the night and hurt his leg.

The next night he said to me, melodramatically, “What day is this?”

“July 20, 2004,” I replied.

“Remember this date,” he told me. “This is the day your father turned into an old man.”

As things turned out, he was wrong. Dad quickly rebounded, and his 90^th birthday found him happily scooping ice cream cones for the International House residents, just as he’d done for years. But now I can’t help wondering: Was January 19 the day I turned into an old man?

Or is that the wrong question? The end of physical vitality is not the end of life, just advancement to a new stage. Old folks have plenty to contribute, too, like experience and wisdom.

Four wise words

I’m scheduled for ankle surgery on Friday, February 6th. (To cover all my bases, I wrote this column ahead of the operation. God forbid I should miss a deadline.) After surgery, I’m told, the healing process may take up to three months, first in a boot and then in a cast. But once that’s over, I should be good to go for the next 20 years.

The alternative? Forgo surgery and wear a brace larger than a shoe for the rest of my life.

I was fortunate to have a choice. That decision was a no-brainer.

Meanwhile, incurable optimist that I am, I’m repeating to myself the four wisest words ever spoken (in good times as well as bad): This too shall pass.

Postscript written Saturday, Feb. 7: The surgery is behind me and went smoothly. The doctors, nurses, aides, and receptionists at Penn Presbyterian Medical Center were both capable and friendly. The anesthesiologist not only put me to sleep (the easy part), she woke me up, too. Bobby Kennedy stayed away. Who could ask for more?

Now I'm laid up in bed with a big boot on my left foot for days or weeks, but I have hope for the future. The doctor gave me six months to live. When I told him I couldn't pay him, he gave me another six months. (That's a joke, courtesy of Henny Youngman.) Laughter is good medicine, yes? The sun will come out tomorrow.

Enjoy Dan Rottenberg’s new memoir, The Education of a Journalist: My Seventy Years on the Frontiers of Free Speech. You can also visit his website at www.danrottenberg.com