I'd fallen and could not get up ... Part II

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I was about 5 hours into my 9-hour ordeal when I began to wonder if I was on track to break my inert endurance record.

Merriam-Webster defines “inert”  as “Lacking the power to move; an inert and lifeless body.”

The previous record was achieved some time in, oh, 1987, at a bar called The Junction in Athens, Ohio.

My inertness began at noon and ended at 2 o’clock — and I’m not talking two hours.

No, we were there from noon til 2 a.m. Fourteen hours. We barely budged. I don’t remember even speaking.

I was with legendary drinker George Armington, one of my all-time best buddies.

This was a day was unlike any other. We were deathly hungover. I remember thinking, “I don’t believe I’m going to die, but I now know what death feels like.”

But we survived. A young admirer asked George about the 14-hour shift we’d put in. Was it difficult?

“The first 9 hours were rough,” he said.

Forty-one years later, I succumbed to inertness after tripping over Snickers, a rom-com mix of Chihuahua, terrier and some other high-strung strains. Living with Snickers is like living with a squirrel that barks.

His bark is ballistic, like that of a machine gun triggered like an inch from an ear.

He’d the only animal I’ve ever known to have barked himself deaf, a situation analogous to a chronically unemployed man masturbating himself into lifelong infertility.

He can’t see either. Once lively eyes are now clouded with aged obstruction.

Never the brightest hound in the harem, his walnut-sized brain seems to have checked out.

I’ve vowed to start calling him Tommy if we ever go to the arcade and learn this deaf, dumb and blind dog can sure play a mean pinball.

And now he’s stricken with bladder problems. With Val assisting her father in Florida hospice, it’s often left to me to care exclusively for Snicker. That means me with my recent back and foot surgeries and my Parkinson’s up at 3 a.m. to locate and mop up scattered puddles of pee.

How bad is it?

Remember that scene from “The Shining” where crimson blood comes gushing out of the grand elevators in the Overlook Hotel?

Envision that’s happening to me, only instead of blood, the flooding substance is canine urine.

I can’t prove it was intentional but he was cunningly positioned right where I’d  trip over him. As falls go it was no Nestea Plunge. It was a gentle stumble. I reached out to steady myself on a hip-high end table. 

All my weight was now in my hands. And on the hardwood floors, the end table was sliding away.

I went down on my knees. 

The upheaval seemed to summon my Parkinson’s which is activated by duress.

Within seconds I understood I was in trouble. 

I was sitting on my ass with my back against the front door. On the hard wood floors, all the furniture was prone to sliding, the floors also caused sharp joint pain no matter how I positioned myself.

I told all this to a friend and he said, “Here’s a thought: Did you ever even think of trying to just stand up?”

If it only were that simple. He looked me over. He saw a reasonably fit 62-year-old, 189-pound man whose driver’s license declares he’s a strapping 6-foot-2 (in fact, I’m only 5-foot-7, but I was bored the day I got my Pennsylvania driver’s license renewed and just felt like fucking with the DMV).

He asked if I was capable of doing a single pushup.

In fact, it was once my custom to do the equivalent number of pushups as my age

But I figured what’s the point and quit the practice when I was 6 …

Kidding! I did the pushup thingie till shortly after I turned 50. But when I tried to push-up my way to vertical salvation the lactic acid would flood my limbs and render me useless.

He asked why I hadn’t just call someone to come assist.

The phone was the first thing I reached for at the start. I thought it was dead.

Spoiler alert: It was not. It had about a 30 percent charge. So either my distress had so disoriented my thinking I overlooked simple solutions or else the phone drew energy from my inert ass.

But who would I have called anyway?

The feelings you experience in a situation like that are primal.

There was no one in the world I felt comfortable to call and have them see me laying face down on the floor of my living room, unable to rise from the floor and manage a sitting position on the recliner, a lazy man in a Lazy Boy.

I’d gotten myself into this mess, I thought, and, by God, I’ll get myself out of it.

That’s incredibly flawed thinking. People are more generous and understanding than we ever are with ourselves.

Yet, the feeling persists. 

I did not want anyone to see me so absurdly helpless.

But as hour after fruitless hour passed, I realized I needed to take action. I knew it could be days before anyone happened by.

I never panicked, but it was becoming clear it was a panic-worthy situation.

I thought I could lure rescue by using the fob for my wife’s car in the driveway (the fob was still on the end table next to my phone and wallet).

I thought I could arrhythmically honk the car horn and nearby neighbors would become suspicious of the commotion and rush to be heroic. 

It was not to be. Maybe the neighbors are well-versed in Morse Code and I’d inadvertently honked out a message that all was well and it was okay for them to return to their stills and meth labs.

But having the high-tech fobbie in my hand reminded me there was a miracle bestowing phone nearby. I decided to check it again. It was functional and sufficiently charged.

I figured it was time to summon the lifesavers. It was time to dial those three magic numbers.

It was time to dial 911.

That led to the second thoughts of panic. Because my hands were shaking so badly I was unable to dial 911.

Instead, I dialed 912, 914, 933, 9211…

I thought briefly about hurling the phone out the big picture window.

I’m glad I didn’t because on my very next try I nailed it.

911

After the boys came and got me and convinced me a trip to the ER was prudent, they asked how long I’d been rolling around the floor.

I told them I’d hit the ground at 9 pm.

“That’s 9 hours!” Josh said.

How long do most people wait before calling for help?

“Fifteen minutes”

So I’ve got bragging rites.

Now with every single step I take I realize I’m one careless step from catastrophe.

If my demise can happen in my living room what chance do I stand on an icy driveway? At a crowded bar? Crossing a busy city street?

The first 9 hours aren’t what worry me.

It’s the next 9 that do.