I'm told there is an age at which falling over becomes ‘having a fall'. But I'm not nearly ready for that

The Guardian

06-02-2025

First things first: I tripped and fell – I did not, as my family teases, have a fall or, even more ridiculous, have a turn.
Here's what happened.
It was a bright, hot morning early this new year. It was the morning after a late night with family. I was weary. Doubtless dehydrated. I'd had three strong coffees and no breakfast when I set out much later in the morning than usual for a standard five or six-kilometre jaunt with Olive the collie-cross.
About half an hour in I realised I'd forgotten to take a daily medication. No harm, I thought. I'd take it when I got home, as I'd done once or twice before.
About halfway across a long bridge, the glare stinging my eyes (in my weariness I'd forgotten sunnies and just had my Collingwood Football Club cap – always guaranteed to get a scowl from the many wearing Sydney Swans caps), I stopped to rewind the audiobook I was holiday-listening to – Elizabeth Strout's wonderful Tell Me Everything.
I felt suddenly woozy and very thirsty. The ground seemed to shimmer, mirage-like, when I refocused on it from my phone. The dog pulled on her lead. I staggered forward, tripped and went arse over, breaking the fall with my right elbow. Olive yelped.
Cyclists and joggers had to swerve. People went 'oohh'. I mean, a whole lot of people went really 'oooooohhhhh'.
It seemed like nothing to me. I was quickly sitting, the dog squatting on my lap alternately licking the blood from my elbow and growling at the many concerned witnesses who were asking me if I was okay and what had happened. I had to pat Olive, to calm her and let her know I was okay.
'It's okay – I'm fine. Thanks. I just kind of … tripped,' I insisted.
More and more people stopped to look. But mostly they all wanted to know if I was okay. The passing traffic slowed.
It was a scene. I don't like scenes. I don't want to be at the centre of them. Ever. But here I was.
'What happened?' a cyclist asked, one of the many worried people now circled above me, brows furrowed. 'I don't know – what's wrong with him?' someone else said.
'He had a fall. He was walking fast the other way and he just went down. Like ooof!'
'Is he okay?'
'Yes, I'm okay,' I said. 'Thank you. I just fell is all. I'm going to get up now.'
'Noooo,' came a collective chorus. 'Don't. Get. Up.'
'Why not – I'm absolutely fine,' I said.
'I'm calling an ambulance,' a woman said. 'Right now.' She dialled 000.
The chorus: 'Yes. Good idea.'
'Please don't,' I said. 'I'm good, really. I don't need an ambulance.'
Next I heard her say into the phone, 'I don't know what's wrong with him – I think he had a fall. He seems okay … yes, actually, he looks not so old, in okay shape …' (Bless that woman.)
'I just fell – too much coffee. Late night. You know,' I said.
Next came a series of questions intended, I now realise, to test my acuity. Where did I live? I gave the correct address. What's with the Collingwood cap? I explained that it was kind of like being unable to choose your family.
Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads
Who's the current prime minister?
'Albo. For the time being.'
People nodded consensus. 'Yeah – I think he's definitely okay.' They were talking about me.
(This reminds me of when the gerontologist asked my then 86-year-old dad, then succumbing to dementia, in late 2007, who the PM was. 'Unfortunately it's John Howard,' Dad responded, 'until we kick him out of office next week.' He was right!)
Someone kindly offered me water. It helped a lot.
A man gave me a hand up. This convinced the woman to cancel that ambulance. I stood against the railing. The dog, both paws protectively on my foot, looked up anxiously. The crowd dissipated.
Olive and I doubled back across the bridge. We walked together with a posse of those who'd stopped to help me. One bloke made me key his number into my phone in case it happened again. Another gave me more water.
One woman (a nurse) made me vow to go to the doctor. I did. I've done all the tests. I'm fine. Though I do feel oddly mortal in a way I've never quite done before, having always enjoyed robust good health, high energy levels and – being a bloke – generally considering myself bulletproof.
I'm told there is an age at which falling over or tripping or whatever becomes 'having a fall'. I did have a significant birthday last year. But I don't feel nearly ready for that.
Amid the odd, sometimes socially isolated pattern that is my life – work at home with my dogs, walk many kilometres alone daily, get lost in writing and books and domestic stuff, otherwise exercise alone in the neighbourhood – I sometimes forget about how my local community is actually made up of other actual people and not just humans attached to dogs whose names I know.
Despite the world having done its best to promote its unfathomable capacity for human heartlessness and cruelty these past couple of years, the random kindness and concern I was shown was deeply touching, societally connecting – and even spiritually nourishing.
It made me recheck my immense good fortune and, not least, my faith in the goodness of others and kindness as an end in itself.
Paul Daley is a Guardian Australia columnist