How to Guilt a Victim
I fell. I fell on my way into Whole Foods after an excellent weight class that made me feel fit and relatively young. I’m sixty-four. My left knee hit the concrete and all my not insubstantial weight followed. I tripped over the parking thingie which is called a stanchion which I remembered right before the screen went blank because my kneecap exploded.
A nice father leaned down and asked, “Are you all right?” My ears were ringing and my teeth chattering so it took me a moment to say, “I’m fine.” His wife leaned down with her hand outstretched and somehow, I stood. I went into Whole Foods, rode the escalator up and put raspberries, salad, and inexplicably rice into the basket. We have tons of rice. It occurred to me I was in physical agony and so I decided not to tell anyone but to go home and ice my knee. Only our cat would know my shameful secret, I wouldn’t waste anyone’s time. It was my fault I hurt myself. Again.
Once in the car I recognized I needed to go to the ER. I drove myself and, since the emergency entrance was blocked, parked, and somehow managed to get myself into the ER. I sat there for a few hours, realized I didn’t have my cell phone and then realized I didn’t want to tell anyone what I did.
What I did. At the age of three I smashed milk bottles, kneeled in the glass and was stitched up, according to my mom, by a drunk Scottish doctor who happened to be at the party. There was lots of yelling. At eleven I had an about-to-rupture appendicitis, but my parents went to a dinner party, warning me not to drink baking soda as it would cause things to burst. Unable to stand, writhing on the floor, I felt guilty. I broke my right arm very badly at twelve and had to wake my parents up and ask to be taken to the hospital. My dad was nice, my mother yelled at me. At fourteen I tipped a bubbling pudding down my leg, followed by the boiling water it was baking in. The lines from my cool fishnet tights stayed embossed in my skin for ages. The hospital was avoided until the burn was infected and all the skin had to be removed.
My maternal grandmother was a nurse in WWI who was in the trenches with dying, wounded, mustard gassed soldiers, so unless one of her children was about to die, which happened to my mother who had diphtheria and was given penicillin which she was allergic to, there was little cause for sympathy or concern.
I have since broken my wrist, elbow, shoulder, left leg and ankle, and possibly a rib. I swim, bike, hike, and walk constantly. The way I see it, I’d rather be me than someone who never moves. My bones surprisingly are in great shape. Sharing this news on Facebook many people made comments like, “Again?” This was not helpful. My husband was away with his family, and I spent too many days hating myself for getting hurt. That makes no sense. “I’m sorry,” is a good response and “I’ll bring over some food,” is really nice.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach