By MARSHA MERCER
Anthropologist Margaret Mead said in a lecture the earliest
sign of civilization is not a clay pot, iron, tools or agriculture.
To her, the earliest evidence of true civilization was
a healed femur, the long bone in the leg. A healed femur showed that someone took
care of the injured person – hunted on his behalf, brought him food and served
him at a personal sacrifice, she said.
“Savage societies could not afford such pity,” surgeon
and Christian author Dr. Paul Brand and co-author Philip Yancey wrote in the
1980 book “Fearfully and Wonderfully Made.” Other authors over the years have also
cited the story, although when and where Mead gave the lecture remains unknown.
She died in 1978.
The story may be apocryphal, but it rings true to me.
A year ago on Oct. 23, I was out for my
morning walk when I slipped and fell hard on a charming, but treacherous, brick
sidewalk in Old Town Alexandria.
I got my first ride in an ambulance that
day. An x-ray at the hospital revealed I had fractured my right femur in three
places. I had never before broken a bone.
The orthopedic surgeon said more than
once it was a shame the break hadn’t been an inch or so higher. Then, I could
have had a hip replacement, which, he assured me, would have been a speedier,
easier recovery than I faced. I never dreamed I’d wish I qualified for hip
replacement.
The surgeon put me back together with a
long steel screw, a plate and four pins and said it would be a year before I
felt like my old self. I spent a couple of days in the hospital and a week at a
hospital rehab center, learning to coax my right leg to move. At first, lying
in bed, I couldn’t raise my leg at all.
I learned how to get in a car by sitting first
and then picking up and moving my right leg. I reversed the procedure to get
out.
A couple of weeks after it happened, I wrote in this
space about my mishap. After covering health care policy as a reporter, it was
eye-opening to be on the receiving end of care. I was, and am, impressed by the
dedication of health care professionals.
An anniversary is a good time to reflect on what’s
happened and what we’ve learned. My mishap, as disruptive as it was, helped
prepare me for life during a pandemic.
When the novel coronavirus hit in March, I already knew
what it felt like to be plucked from the reality I knew and dropped into a
world I did not know.
I could not drive for eight weeks and learned to rely
on other people. My mishap made me grateful for not only for medical personnel
but for family and friends who cheered me on.
I arrived home with a walker and in a few weeks
graduated to a cane. The cane, though, became a crutch and I gave it up months
later only because the surgeon said it was time.
At first, a nurse, physical therapist and
home health aide came to my house. For a couple of weeks, I felt uncomfortable
taking a shower unless someone stood right outside the door, in case I needed
help. Fortunately, I never needed any.
Life during a pandemic also makes you
aware that risks lurk everywhere. Health officials continue to insist we’re
safer at home. I already worked at home, but sometimes we have to go out.
I’d never feared falling before, but danger
loomed large.
In my three-story townhouse, stairs were
a challenge. For the longest time, I held onto the banister tightly and took
the stairs one careful step at a time.
In December, once I was cleared to drive,
I went to out-patient physical therapy. After the pandemic hit, I moved to
online PT and then to exercise videos.
After a year, I’m glad to say my femur
has healed and I’m practically my old self. I’m back to walking four miles a day.
I take the stairs without holding on. I even walk on brick sidewalks.
©2020 Marsha Mercer. All rights reserved.
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