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Unsteady

John Farquhar Young

    Harry, a confirmed bachelor in his late sixties, ruefully surveys his face in the bathroom mirror. Beneath the white helmet of hair, a gash held together by transparent adhesive strips marches in a diagonal line across his broad forehead. He tentatively probes a black fist-sized blotch, on his left cheek, the congealed aftereffect of the blood which coursed down under his skin from the site of the wound. Not painful but ugly, he concludes.
    From the time of the accident two days before he has been rehearsing his responses to the ribbing he expects to receive when he meets his pensioner friends in a local cafe later that morning.
'What on earth have you been up to?' he imagines someone saying. 'You're a bit old for brawling, aren't you?' 'Fell over when you had one drink too many?'
    Let them have their fun. Keep your answers short and jocular, he advises himself.
Move the conversation along as quickly as possible.
    'I just tripped and banged my head,' would be the quick and easy - but not truthful - response. 'No great damage done. I have a hard head.'
    Jakie, the most curious of the group, might be tempted to interrogate him. An excitable and talkative man, always full of theories, Jakie liked to hear reports of health problems and was particularly receptive to stories about age-related ailments - eyesight difficulties, arthritis, and various brain deficiencies afflicting the elderly such as memory loss.
    Harry frowns as he turns away from the mirror. Jakie! Jakie was indirectly responsible for his bashed head. A week earlier Jakie had closely interrogated Ali, who was foolish enough to disclose that he had been unable to get out of his bath due to a sudden weakness in his arms.
    'You'll have to use your shower from now on,' Jackie opined, after diagnosing the onset of a progressive muscular weakness.
'Your wife will not always be able to help you get out of the bath. Then you'll have to get the Fire and Rescue Service... to haul you out.' He paused and shaking his head slowly, gazed out of the cafe window towards the street clearly conjuring up an image of the scene. 'Not dignified.'
    Harry knew that Jakie would develop a dismal story out of his head injury. 'Just as well you didn't bash a different bit of head,' he imagines Jakie chuckling. 'You could have ended up as a zombie.'
    Despite his tedious interest in health problems Harry liked Jakie. His obsession never became an issue and was always lightly dealt with by the friends.
'You should have been a doctor, Jakie,' one of the group would say. 'Not a doctor I would use,' another would add. 'You'd need anti-depressants after seeing him.'
The group would laugh with Jakie joining in the fun. Then the conversation would move to other matters - gardening, wives and grandchildren, forthcoming holidays.
    But there was something in Jakie's treatment of Ali's bath problem that magnified Harry's worry about the gathering signs of a slide towards decrepitude and dependence. Weaknesses had to be addressed! And addressed vigorously! Challenges! Gauntlets! That's what they were! Gauntlets thrown down by Fate in front of a person!
    A first response - the getting-out-of-the-bath exercise. Fully clothed he lowered himself into the dry bath then pushed himself up on his arms until he was able to bring his legs back to the point where he could stand. He did this several times. No problem! OK, OK, an onlooker would regard this as utterly ridiculous, but nobody is filming me, are they? He chuckled as he recalled Jakie's words about being rescued by firemen. Perhaps later but not yet.
    New exercises and challenges followed. Stairs must be ascended two steps at a time. Walking briskly - a steep nearby hill would be good for his legs and heart. Swimming required a minimum a few lengths in the local pool.
    After several days his body was protesting. Arms legs and back persistently ached. But, he considered, basically no problem. The pains were the cost of progress.
    The idea came to him when he was sitting on his bed about to put on his socks.
    I used to be able to do this standing on one leg, he thought. Years ago! Don't think about it. Just do it! Dare!
He steadied himself and after several moments of ungainly wobbling, managed to raise his left leg to a height sufficient to allow him to hook the open end of the sock over his toes; and then, with a determined tug, the sock was in place. He breathed out slowly and, encouraged by the successful completion of the first part of the challenge, turned his attention to the other sock.
    Too cocky, too cocky by half, he thought, returning two hours later in the taxi from the small injuries clinic at the local hospital. As he re-entered his house, he noted the track of blood-stained paper handkerchiefs, the towel and the discarded vest marking out the zig-zag trail from his bedroom to the toilet, to the telephone and then to other places on his way to his front door.
    Two days later he stands by his front gate waiting for the taxi which will take him to the cafe where he will meet his chums. He rehearses his story. 'I fell over and banged my head on my sideboard. I have a hard head. I will survive.'
    The taxi is very late. As it nears the cafe, he sees an ambulance nose into the traffic, emergency lights flashing. His friends are standing on the pavement.
    'It's Jakie,' Ali said sadly. 'Just came into the cafe, looked a bit odd, seemed to lose his balance then collapsed on the floor. Paramedics think he had a heart attack.' He casually notes Harry's face. 'Fell over and bashed your head, did you?'' he nods solemnly and then glances up the road at the rapidly disappearing ambulance. 'You have to be careful when you get to our age.' He pauses. 'Life can get a bit unsteady, can't it?'
    The following morning Harry sits on the side of his bed, toying with his socks, thinking about Jakie. Ali's words come back to him. 'Life can be very unsteady,' he murmurs.
    A flash of resolve - he stands, raises his left foot, and with comparative ease slips on the sock. Tentatively poised on his left leg Ð the wobbly leg Ð he cautiously lifts his right leg. Just a little. No point in rushing. No wobble, so far so good. He moves his foot a little higher, bends forward aiming the top of the sock towards his toes. Then he loses his balance falling sideways onto the bed. Why is my left leg weaker? he wonders. A moment later he angrily dismisses the thought. He stands again, mouth set in a straight line and more briskly than before raises his right foot. In a single rapid grabbing motion, he captures his toes in the neck of the sock. Dangerously unbalanced he weaves left and right until he manages to steady himself. NOW! he commands himself, and a moment later - MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! He stands and in the mirror his image smiles back at him.
    After breakfast his thoughts turn again to Jakie.
His laboriously punched out text to Ali prompts a quick response. 'Seems to be recovering. He'll be OK.'
    Harry flicks on the TV and chooses a news channel.
An earthquake has destroyed large parts of an Asian city. Many casualties are reported. 'Life can be very unsteady,' he murmurs.

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