Randy Fitzgerald

Barb fall down, go boom.

Every night around dusk, Barb and I walk a block and a half up the street to the Easterling-Zacharias health center where we do about 45 minutes of exercising on the ellipticals and treadmills.  Tuesday night we never made it.

            A few yards from the gym’s front door, Barb tripped up and fell to the concrete sidewalk like a brick.  It happened so fast she never even had time to get her hands out in front of her. The minute she hit, she knew she was in trouble and told me very calmly to go call 911. The only other thing she said at that moment was that she couldn’t breathe.

            It happened so fast I couldn’t get a grasp that it had happened at all. One minute we were walking along talking about a limb we’d just had removed from a tree in the yard, and the next minute she was down, there was blood pouring from under her face, and the leisurely evening that had stretched out before us was off in a crazy new direction.

            By the time I got back to Barb, she had rolled over and was sitting up, breathing now, thank God, but clearly in a lot of pain. Other times I have seen her in crises, when the pain or the problem has involved me or the children, she tends to get hysterical fast. This time she was frightingly calm, speaking normally if cautiously through a badly damaged lip as we waited for Richmond Ambulance to arrive. The folks from EZ came out and gathered around, offering comfort and a mat for her to lean on, patting her back and providing a wet towel for her face.

            When she realized her front teeth had been broken off, she said, “Oh my lord, I hope this doesn’t mean I have to move to
West Virginia!” 

            Within minutes the fire truck and then the ambulance arrived and soon she was carted off to St. Mary’s, an improvised sling on her right arm, in the care of EMTs Brian and Ryanne.  Barb said that on the way there, when she ventured the opinion that maybe I should have taken her to the hospital in our car and left the ambulance free for “someone who really needed it,” Brian told her it was a great relief to be facing a “smaller” problem than the ones he usually faced as he responded to calls in Richmond.

            “Are you the ones who get the gunshots and traffic accidents?” Barb asked him.

            “We’re the ones who get everything,” he replied.

            By the time I had walked back home, gotten the insurance information and driven to St. Mary’s, the emergency room doctor had already picked the pieces of teeth out of Barb’s lip and shipped her off for X-rays. Her ribs, which she had feared broken, were just bruised, but her forearm X-ray was ambiguous. The doctor thought she likely had a hairline fracture, which was showing up as a black line on the film. 

            When he sewed up her lip, I must admit I looked away.  She got six stitches, inside and out, and the doc told her it was unlikely she was going to be kissed for awhile. She said, all things considered, that would make her very happy.

            Her fall came at 6, and it was after 9 when we got back home. I fixed the bed in Sarah’s old room for her, so that I wouldn’t be knocking her in the chest or arm during the night.  I gave her a pain pill and put her to bed and—despite the doctor’s opinion—gave her a kiss.

            Then I went and thought about how quickly things can change. One minute all’s right with the world, the next minute nothing you’ve done all day or all week means a thing. She looked so young and beaten up lying there, and I was extremely grateful to see her sleeping peacefully within a few minutes.

Before I went to bed, I called the kids back with a progress report, and daughter Sarah said she had already called her Nana to share the bad news. “But I didn’t want to say Mom had just tripped up in the street,” she admitted, “so I said she had done it rock-climbing.” Barb, too, would prefer that version, I’m sure.

            Then I called my friend and the world’s best dentist, Baxter Perkinson, who the next morning fixed Barb’s broken teeth beautifully. You’d never know they’d been broken. Which gives me something else to be grateful for.

            West Virginia is a beautiful state to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there either.

        Walking Against the Wind

        Barb and I participated in the Richmond Marathon Saturday, only we were going backwards, walking and stopped after three or so miles.

        Each year on
Marathon day we try to get out on the streets of our neighborhood for a while and cheer the runners on. If you’ve never tried it, you’d be surprised at how much fun being a spectator at a marathon is. There’s a lot to see because the whole world passes you by—all races and nationalities, all ages, all manner of garb, all levels of fitness (or unfitness, as the case may be), a wide range of attitudes and commitment, not to mention a wide range of coordination, too.

We saw folks well back in the pack as graceful as the folks on “Dancing with the Stars”—not too speedy perhaps, but great form.  Then there were some lankies that looked to trip over their feet any minute—but clearly appearances were deceiving because some of these were way ahead of the crowd. 

Barb and I watched for awhile and then, almost without thinking about it, we headed off down Brook Road going the opposite way from the runners, heading north as west as they moved toward the homestretch going south and east, facing us.

The neighborhoods of Northside were out in force, with their radios booming out good running music, the water and power-ade contingents manning almost every third or fourth corner, and folks in lawn chairs clapping, whistling and yelling words of encouragement as the tail end of the runners loped past.
  Barb and I stopped walking and joined in the applause each time we saw someone close to our age group (that would be those near death) or someone who was still hauling it despite being way back in the rankings.I hoped that the runners were taking time to realize how beautiful the neighborhoods of Northside Richmond were as they passed.

Laburnum Park, where we began our stroll, has wide streets with wide medians, and a pleasing contradiction of good family houses large and small; Ginter Park, the next neighborhood over, is straight out of Ozzie and Harriet—big old strong houses with wide yards and late-blooming flowers and front porches.  The neat cottages of Bellevue are a Hollywood-perfect scene, with the profusion of trees along the streets still holding on to their last blanket of red and yellow leaves. 

The day was perfect unless, I guess, you were running a marathon. For Barb and me, it was a just-warm-enough Indian Summer day, with a cooling breeze and the sweet sound of fall leaves crunching under our feet—and because the residents were partying for the occasion, the smell of something good here and there from a grill. It was so nice to be out, to be moving. Between my new teaching job this year and all the paper work involved with turning 65 and retiring from my old job, I seem to spend most of my days at the computer. Recently I’m been going back, too, through the 350-some letters and e-mails I have gotten since the newspaper cancelled my column, trying to answer all the folks who were nice enough to contact me.

If I have missed you, I apologize, but you’ll probably be hearing from me this week. My goal was to get everybody answered before Thanksgiving—which explains why I haven’t had a column in a while. Each time I sit down at the computer, I go to class preparations or the letters instead. I know it sounds corny, but I feel as though these are letters from friends that need to be answered—and they can be put off no longer.

Today, Sunday, we awoke to a different place, a different season. The rains had poured down during the night, the basement had little rivers of water running here and there, and cat let us know it was too cold to stay out more than a few minutes. No walks today.

But all those folks who ran the marathon yesterday, I bet they got up feeling pretty darn good about themselves.  Not a small thing a marathon.  Not a small thing sticking with it and finishing.  Not a small thing to watch the determined faces of those who knew they were going to make it, because believing would make it so.

In fact, it was a pretty great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Barb and I participated in the Richmond Marathon Saturday, only we were going backwards, walking and stopped after three or so miles. Each year on Marathon day we try to get out on the streets of our neighborhood for a while and cheer the runners on.

If you’ve never tried it, you’d be surprised at how much fun being a spectator at a marathon is. There’s a lot to see because the whole world passes you by—all races and nationalities, all ages, all manner of garb, all levels of fitness (or unfitness, as the case may be), a wide range of attitudes and commitment, not to mention a wide range of coordination, too.

We saw folks well back in the pack as graceful as the folks on “Dancing with the Stars”—not too speedy perhaps, but great form. Then there were some lankies that looked to trip over their feet any minute—but clearly appearances were deceiving because some of these were way ahead of the crowd.

Barb and I watched for awhile and then, almost without thinking about it, we headed off down Brook Road going the opposite way from the runners, heading north as west as they moved toward the homestretch going south and east, facing us.

The neighborhoods of Northside were out in force, with their radios booming out good running music, the water and power-ade contingents manning almost every third or fourth corner, and folks in lawn chairs clapping, whistling and yelling words of encouragement as the tail end of the runners loped past.

Barb and I stopped walking and joined in the applause each time we saw someone close to our age group (that would be those near death) or someone who was still hauling it despite being way back in the rankings.

I hoped that the runners were taking time to realize how beautiful the neighborhoods of Northside Richmond were as they passed. Laburnum Park, where we began our stroll, has wide streets with wide medians, and a pleasing contradiction of good family houses large and small; Ginter Park, the next neighborhood over, is straight out of Ozzie and Harriet—big old strong houses with wide yards and late-blooming flowers and front porches. The neat cottages of Bellevue are a Hollywood-perfect scene, with the profusion of trees along the streets still holding on to their last blanket of red and yellow leaves.

The day was perfect unless, I guess, you were running a marathon. For Barb and me, it was a just-warm- enough Indian Summer day, with a cooling breeze and the sweet sound of fall leaves crunching under our feet—and because the residents were partying for the occasion, the smell of something good here and there from a grill.

It was so nice to be out, to be moving. Between my new teaching job this year and all the paper work involved with turning 65 and retiring from my old job, I seem to spend most of my days at the computer. Recently I’m been going back, too, through the 350-some letters and e-mails I have gotten since the newspaper cancelled my column, trying to answer all the folks who were nice enough to contact me.

If I have missed you, I apologize, but you’ll probably be hearing from me this week. My goal was to get everybody answered before Thanksgiving—which explains why I haven’t had a column in a while. Each time I sit down at the computer, I go to class preparations or the letters instead. I know it sounds corny, but I feel as though these are letters from friends that need to be answered—and they can be put off no longer.

Today, Sunday, we awoke to a different place, a different season. The rains had poured down during the night, the basement had little rivers of water running here and there, and cat let us know it was too cold to stay out more than a few minutes. No walks today.

But all those folks who ran the marathon yesterday, I bet they got up feeling pretty darn good about themselves. Not a small thing a marathon. Not a small thing sticking with it and finishing. Not a small thing to watch the determined faces of those who knew they were going to make it, because believing would make it so.

In fact, it was a pretty great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.