Please Help Me I’m Falling . . .

My Life on the Ground

My German friends called me a “tollpatsch.” In Portuguese, the word is “desajeitada.” There are apparently words in every language for what I am, but in English, I’m simply a klutz.

I’ve been one all my life. I almost hung myself on the monkey bars in the fourth grade. I was the last kid picked for pickup ball in the neighborhood or any PE team involving hitting a ball. I only passed my tennis PE requirement in college because I showed up for the 8 o’clock class. I never once returned a serve.

In my zeal to become a high school cheerleader, my friend tried to teach me how to perform a cartwheel, the minimum requirement. I failed, but in the process became so sore from constantly hitting the ground that I missed a day of school.

As a kid, I remember overhearing a woman suggesting ballet lessons so I could become more graceful. Ballet wasn’t something people did in my working class, Southern Baptist family. That was for Episcopalians who drove flashy new cars and drank real wine at communion rather than grape juice.

Not only do I lack a sense of depth perception and athletic ability, my big, flat feet don’t always point in the direction my brain commands. Add arthritis, bunions and hammer toes, and it’s amazing I can walk at all.

My 23-And-Me genetic test assessed me this way: “Unlikely to be an elite athlete.”

Well, duh.

As I’ve gotten older, falling has become an increasing issue. In the past 20 years, I’ve fallen in parking lots, streets, my yard, movie theatres, parks, and up and down stairs. I once did a perfect triple Lutz over my garbage can in the back yard while trying to throw in the trash bags.

I tumbled in the middle of the street in London when I took my then-18-year-old son there for high school graduation. He pretended not to know me and walked away, claiming I’d embarrassed him. Nearby English bobbies hoisted me to my feet while three lanes of oncoming traffic halted.

I’ve taken specialized physical therapy twice in the U.S. to help with balance and gait. It has a fancy name, but I called it walking school. It helped temporarily.

When I decided to move to Portugal, I knew the cobblestones would be a challenge. I was warned to forget wearing high heels (I haven’t owned them in years) or any kind of slick-bottomed shoe.

“Only bring comfortable shoes with grippy soles,” advised Mary Mass, one of the first expats I met during an early visit. “Throw out your dress shoes.” Having recently been diagnosed with osteopenia, the precursor of osteoporosis, I took her advice to heart.

I did just that before my move, bringing only two pairs of flats with rubber soles that I’ve worn once each. The rest of the time, I’ve worn athletic shoes with thick, waffled soles. Everyone does. Even with dresses. It’s the only way to survive.

The ancient cobblestones are uneven, treacherous when wet and frequently missing in spots, leaving big holes where a klutz such as myself can easily sprain an ankle. I walk staring at the ground.

Even so, I’ve managed to fall four times in the 18 months I’ve lived in Portugal—twice on the cobblestones and twice in my house.

The first time I fell was in January 2025, only six weeks into my stay. I was taking a short cut behind the grocery store, heading to a large variety store several streets away. I caught my toe on the edge of a cobblestone and plummeted to my knee and then my backside.

I was congratulating myself that the road was deserted and that at least nobody had seen me stumble. Seemingly from nowhere, I looked up and saw a Portuguese woman about four feet tall scurrying across the empty lot in my direction, frantically calling out to me in Portuguese.

“Desculpe,” I said. “Não falo português.” Saying that I couldn’t speak Portuguese was the only phrase I knew. I only know slightly more now after studying for a year.

She immediately switched to English as she approached.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “My friend and I were driving the car and we saw you fall. I made her turn around at the stop light and come back to help you.”

Mind you, they’d been two streets away from me when this happened. I couldn’t believe that they’d make such an effort for a stranger, but that’s just how wonderful these people here are.

“Yes, I’m okay,” I said, checking my bloody knee and hand.

“I’m going to help you up,” the woman said, reaching for me.

“You’re too small,” I protested. “You can do that. Just let me sit here for a moment and I’ll get up.”

“No, I can do it!” she insisted. And with that, she began tugging on my arm with inhuman strength until I was on my feet.

“My friend and I are going to take you to the hospital,” she said.

“That’s not necessary,” I told her. I was an expert at falling. This was no big deal.

“You need to be checked. Let us take you.”

By then, I knew that only my pride had been seriously injured, nothing more. I’d need some gauze and tape on my knee, but I’d be fine once I tended to the blood.

I thanked the sweet woman profusely and assured her that I wasn’t seriously hurt. She reluctantly left me to limp back home.

The second time I fell was a couple of months later in Nazaré when I’d heard that the town’s famous monster waves that attract surfers from around the world would be active. I’d wanted to see them since I’d arrived but never had gotten there at the right time.

After parking, I headed to the trail at Sitio, the mountain leading to the cliff where the surf is best viewed. In my haste, I tripped on the curb and went down on all fours on the cobblestones. Within seconds, I was surrounded by six nearby Portuguese who grabbed my arms, pulled me to my feet and brushed me off.

Telling the story later that evening at dinner, a friend joked: “Are you sure you still have your wallet?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I might be pregnant!”

The third and fourth falls were in my house. In one case, I slid down in my bedroom because I was wearing socks without shoes. I got the wind knocked out and bonked my head on the floor, but I was otherwise fine.

The other time was a bit scarier. I slid down in the bathtub last May and couldn’t get out.

I was taking a shower and washing my hair when I decided to shave my legs, which I don’t do very often anymore because I’m all out of hormones and my hair doesn’t grow as thick as it once did. (This includes my eyebrows, which makes me very sad.)

I saw my razor on the side of the tub and thought I’d give my legs and underarms a few whacks because it had been a few months since I’d done it, and shorts weather was around the corner. Just as I was about to start on leg #2, the razor escaped my grip and fell over the side of the tub.

Now, let me explain.

Tubs in Portugal are different from U.S. tubs. They’re typically deeper than Virginia tubs, at least mine is. Plus, mine is even higher because it’s apparently on some kind of little platform to accommodate the plumbing rather than being flush to the floor. Mine comes up to my knees when I’m standing beside it.

It’s also encased in granite, making the sides thicker. I have to take care when stepping into the tub to lift my leg high and wide enough to clear the top.

When I first bought the apartment, a contractor I consulted for estimates on possible upgrades suggested I remove the tub and install a walk-in shower for safety issues, noting that I was “aging.” (I detest that word. It just means the person using it is just trying to be nice and not call you old. Even if you are.)

I decided that was an expense I didn’t need—yet. After all, I was perfectly capable of getting in and out of my Virginia tub, even when I used it for taking long soaks rather than quick showers.

When I dropped that razor on the floor, I couldn’t just reach over and grab it; I had to reach down below the level of my feet to retrieve it. Just as I was doing that, I said to myself, “Self, you should probably just let that go because you could fall,” which was probably God trying to look after me.

But, being me, I ignored God, something I’ve done to my own detriment in the past, and reached for it anyway because doing things against my better judgement is my super power.

You can guess what happened. I didn’t exactly fall, but I lost my balance and slowly slithered into the tub. I lay there like a dead bug with my feet up in the air, the shower still flowing, regretting the decision I’d made in haste, my other super power.

I tried various techniques to get out. First, I tried to push myself up by holding onto the sides of the tub and rocking to my feet, but the shower mat slid out from under me and I went back down. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I remembered that video I’d recently watched about how everyone needs to be able to sit down on the floor and get up without using their hands, and if you can’t, you’ve got an increased chance of dying.

I lay there thinking how the video producer must have had in mind the possibility of getting stuck in the bathtub. I vowed that if I ever got out of the tub, I would make that move a priority with my trainer at the gym.

There are several people who have keys to my apartment, including my handyman, and I had messaged him earlier in the week and asked if he could come by and put a shelf in for me. On one hand, if he came by and found me, I’d be rescued, but on the other hand, I was horrified by the idea of him having to fish me out of the tub. Naked.

I imagined possibly being there for a month and the hunky firefighters from across the street breaking down my door and finding me dead in the tub after somebody finally realized that they hadn’t seen me around in a while or when my body starting stinking so badly that the neighbors realized something was amiss.

My next thought was, “I can’t let anybody see me naked—dead or alive—until I shed the ten pounds I’ve gained this year.” (More since then. Sigh. It’s the fault of the Portuguese and German bread.)

While getting stuck in the tub would provide a perfect opportunity to begin that muti-day fast I’d been considering to kick-start my weight loss, I also worried that it might be weeks until I was found. I’d need that fat to prolong my life.

As a young newspaper reporter covering the police and fire departments in my Virginia town, I’d seen what dead bodies look like after they’d been in the water for a while. Water bloats a body even more, and I realized that I’d resemble a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon within in a few days’ postmortem.

At least I wouldn’t have crabs hanging all over me the way those bodies had when the rescue squad pulled them out of the Chesapeake Bay. That was small consolation.

The fear of being found naked motivated me even more to find a way to get out. That, and the realization that I hadn’t yet drawn up my Portuguese will. I couldn’t die before that was done. I had standards.

I flung my legs over the side, hoping I could work myself out that way, but my feet didn’t reach the floor and I couldn’t hoist my butt high enough to get over the edge.

By then I was starting to panic. Was it possible that I had brought my phone into the bathroom with me and it was on the counter? I always sleep with my phone in case of emergencies, but I don’t always carry it from room to room during the day.

I checked, and of course I hadn’t. I’m not sure I could have reached it even if I’d remembered it. And, again, I thought about the firefighters having to break my door in, finding me, and then going home to tell their cute young wives about the pathetic, saggy old woman they’d bailed out of the tub.

So, would I really have wanted want to call them?

I’d had the foresight to get my handyman to put a grab bar in the bathroom soon after I moved in, but I’d instructed him to place it high on the wall so that I could hold onto it while showering.

I’m always careful to hold it when closing my eyes to rinse shampoo out of my hair to avoid just the situation I currently was in. I hadn’t anticipated needing it while sitting. I made a mental note to have Wayne install a low one, too, in the unlikely event that I should survive.

I rolled around in the tub like a greased pig for a while, exploring various positions that might propel me out of my trap. Somehow with enough effort, I was finally able to turn over onto my knees and reach the grab bar with my right hand.

Even though I have a bum shoulder from rotator cuff surgery, I was eventually able to clench my teeth through the pain and hoist myself up.

Once out of the tub, the first thing I thought about was when the actress Delta Burke fell in a hotel bathroom, seriously injuring her back and having to use a wheelchair afterwards.

“I felt myself falling and I didn’t want to hit my head on the toilet because I did not want ‘toilet bowl’ in my obituary listed anywhere,” she told the paparazzi.

There would be no paparazzi interviews for me, but I was relieved that there would not be “death by bathtub” or “desajeitada” in my obit.

At least this time.