“80-year-old fall!”

When I heard the triage nurse’s call, I realized I had a new label. I was waiting with two ambulance attendants in the ER corridor, in line for an empty bed. They can call it emergency, but hospitals in general involve a lot of waiting. That allows time for pondering.

Ponder this: How is it that Seattle citizens, accustomed to walking around prone bodies on the sidewalk without even slowing down, would rush to my assistance as I lay facedown on hard concrete?

Welcome to my world of privilege. I was nearly 20 when I began to realize that I was privileged through no fault of my own. I was born white, middle class (not a lot of money but enough), a U.S. citizen, raised in a two-parent household by parents who habitually expressed love for each other and their children. I thought that was normal. 

With every passing decade and cultural crises of domestic violence, sexual abuse, family trauma, systemic racism, homelessness, social injustice at every turn, my privilege becomes harder to bear. Not until I work through the guilt and humbly lament can my privilege be fully acknowledged and appreciated.

People fall on Seattle sidewalks all the time. I’ve watched it happen. The falls I’ve witnessed unfold in slow motion. The faller leans forward from the waist, bends their knees, and lowers their body, ever so slowly escaping into the inevitable neverland of  gravity and drug OD.

My fall occurred instantaneously, as if the uneven sidewalk suddenly rose up, smacking my body like a thousand sledge hammers. Before I could figure out what happened, people — total strangers — hurried to help. I have to ask, “Why me?” Not the victim’s why me. Not the why me of Job or anyone who disputes bad events that are supposedly unjust, undeserved. 

I suspect people rushed to my aid because I wear my 80 years of privilege like a shining coat of armor: silver-haired matron in age-appropriate, subdued clothing, walking briskly, could even be heading home from church (which I happened to be). I was safe. My needs were simple: help me up. Maybe call an ambulance. Lots of Good Samaritans on hand. 

I think the Samaritan’s story can be misinterpreted. It’s not that we’re called to assist every needy person we come across. We are to acknowledge both their needs and our ability or inability to meet those needs. I as an individual cannot help the fellow human who is comatose in the building alcove. I can, however, join with others in community who, as a community, have the power to help, to make a difference. Even the Samaritan didn’t act on his own. He took the robbery victim to an inn where he presumably was known. He trusted the innkeeper to provide appropriate care, and the innkeeper trusted him to make good on the bill. That’s community.

I declined suggestions of an ambulance and got a Lyft ride home. After an hour of icing, I had to admit my injuries were worse than I could heal on my own. Again as a privileged person with an insurance card in her wallet (10 percent of Americans STILL don’t have insurance and others are under-insured), I called an ambulance.

Diagnosis: fractures of the left radius (elbow) and right patella (kneecap) along with a colorful variety of bruises and abrasions. Next comes elbow surgery followed by rehab. Then — date uncertain — back home, all because I’m privileged. Once back home they’ll call me by my name, or occasionally “Apartment 13-A.” Just not “80-year-old fall.”

That selfie is not at all flattering, and honestly, it looks worse than it feels.