I have been diagnosed with a new genetic disorder.
It's a new discovery -- something the doctors can't believe.
"We don't know how long you will live," they told me.
The problem with this genetic disease, is that it's much like AIDS and HIV. As the doctors said, they don't know how long this disease will take it's toll. I could die from it within the next few days, or I could be well into my fifties when this genetic disorder takes my life.
This disease has an unusual name: Falling Down.
Thanks to my grandmother and grandfather that take spills all the time, I too, have the sick ability to just, well, fall down.
Are my legs weak? No. Do my knees hurt? Not at all. Do I put my shoes on the right feet? Um, I'm sure that's not the problem. Am I handicapped? No.
So, what causes me to fall down so much?
It has to be genetic. If DNA can attribute to the way I look, feel, smell and talk, then there has to be something in my DNA that causes my legs to give, my vision to blur and my body to make hard contact to the floor.
I should have known what my fate was when I was babysitting with my grandmother for my aunt and uncle one afternoon up in Chicago. While my aunt and uncle were gone with my grandfather, I was watching TV with my cousins while my grandmother was bumbling around the family room trying to clean up.
She picked up a toy and then just swayed right over. She bounced off the ottoman, hit the floor and cursed. I was in disbelief. I didn't know older people could fall down, which went along with the myth that older people couldn't run.
Then the dark traditions began to fall on me. It all began years ago when I moved into my new house. My family moved from a one-story house to a two-story house.
"Wow," I said in wonderment. "We've got a staircase."
Then the genetic disorder became relevant. "Good morning mom and dad," I would preach from the top of the stairs. "I'm coming down."
One step, two step, three step, oops, fumble, trip, ow, ugh, woah!
My parents greeted me with laughter, "You did not just do that?"
Oh, but I did. I would make it all the way down to the last three steps and just miss them completely, wiping out and hitting the floor, grapping the carpet with my open mouth and getting fuzz stuck between my teeth.
Walking up the stairs in the Arts and Journalism building, I'm constantly tripping over my flip flops and catching my life on the hand rales.
Thank you hand rales -- you are my medication.
But if stairs weren't bad enough, my sickness permeates in the office as well. I think I've fallen down at least five times in front of my co-workers.
One afternoon, just as the Chair of the Journalism Department was walking down the hall, my flip flop got caught between my co-worker's chair and her desk, and as I tried to move, the flip flop secured me to the chair and instead of going straight forward, I went straight -- kaboom.
Then, during a meeting with my boss in the office, we sat around the table and he asked me to bring something up that was on my computer. I tried to scoot over to the computer on my wheely chair, but the wheel was hooked onto the leg of the table. I scooted once, and no movement. I tried again, and no movement. I pushed hard the third time and landed on the floor -- umpf.
Luckily I enjoy milk, and I've heard tea is good for bone density as well. I've already broken four of my bottom teeth -- I don't need to break anything else.
Or maybe with the developments with stem cell research, I can get some kind of implant that will stop me from falling. If nothing from stem cells, perhaps breast implants -- I do need something to break my fall -- and I've got a feeling I won't be keeping my balance anytime soon.
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