We've seen the TV ads depicting ailing patients who've fallen and can't get up. When I was younger (well, not all that younger) I used to smile and dismiss those as the Life Alert folk just trying to make a buck.
That was back in my ignorant phase.
I probably shouldn't tell this on myself, but I've promised readers a candid look at what my ongoing chemo/radiation treatments and rapidly dwindling weight loss are like, so here's some embarrassing honesty from the other night inside our home.
After several hours, I'd decided I'd had enough of the recliner. The soft couch across the living room looked enticing, so I got up, walked over and plopped down on it as the clock rounded 10 p.m.
Jeanetta already had gone to bed with the door shut and turned on the sound machine to block the sound of the TV.
After a while, I decided the sofa was too soft so I tried pushing myself into a sitting position but found I couldn't.
What I failed to realize was how much strength I'd lost after weeks of chemo and radiation. That meant I had to roll off onto the slick hardwood floor to try to get to my feet.
But I still couldn't get enough leverage from the cushy couch to hoist myself up. It just kept sinking in with every push. So then I was pondering my next move on my knees that were smarting sharply from rubbing against the floor.
The problem was there wasn't another move. Every time I tried using my feet as leverage, they just slid against the hardwood.
Hmmm. What to do? What to do? After a few minutes, I decided to try crawling to a nearby table and using it as a base to hopefully pull myself upright.
After straining to get there, I was feeling exhausted and the floor rubbed harder against my knees and elbows. It soon became painfully obvious this plan sounded better than it would work.
But now here I was, sprawled on the floor, fresh out of ideas except to begin yelling for Jeanetta (who by now had to have fallen asleep) as loud as my raw sore throat would allow.
I yelled three or four times, doubting she would hear me. Yet I kept trying because there was no other choice at that point if I ever wanted to walk upright again (yes, the drama in my mind had reached that point).
Finally, as my voice was turning raspy, I heard the bedroom door open--through divine intervention, I suspect--and her voice call my name.
The cavalry had arrived as the last ounce of my strength was waning!
She tried lifting from every angle and, despite her considerable strength, the best we could do was scoot me to that recliner I should never have left and prop my back against it with a wedge pillow. At least that enabled me to sit upright.
That's when my energy supply drained to zero. I'd heard radiation and chemo bring on fatigue; I just never realized how much and quickly they drain your energy.
At one point we looked at each other and started laughing at the situation. "Who'd have ever thought we'd find ourselves in this position?" I said.
Try as hard as I could, I couldn't get enough traction to back myself up into the chair using my feet that kept sliding, even with her trying to help hoist 200 pounds of me.
If I could only get there, the problem would be solved.
Our only remaining alternative was to call her strapping 43-year-old son Frankie, who lives across town, to come to the rescue.
Several minutes later he arrived and was able to lock his arms beneath mine and lift with all his might to finally ease me back into the recliner.
I suddenly had renewed hope that I wouldn't be spending the night on a cold, unforgiving floor after all.
Frankie went home, Jeanetta headed back to bed, and I sat there a long time catching my breath and pondering how many people over the years who live alone and fall wind up dying after spending hopeless days on the floor.
I can assure you that, should you ever find yourself facing a period of rather panicky uncertainty alone, something as simple as getting your feet back beneath you will feel like a second chance at life.
Today, I also have firsthand understanding and respect for those who enable those who live alone to summon help when they can't get up. I ask myself what I'd have done if I had no one to help and with my cell phone two rooms away.
Yep. I've officially joined the ranks of the floor folk, based on one bad choice, and believe me when I tell you, valued readers, it's not an experience you want to have.
By the way, we've since placed one of those little air-horn canisters on the lower shelf of a table in the living room to summon help if I decide my recliner isn't as exciting as another adventure hugging the hardwood.
Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly like you want them to treat you.
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.