So I think I told y’all not too long ago about my Aunt Bea. She’s 99, has had a few minor falls and what not but keeps on keeping on…?
Well, she had another fall on Sunday.
She was waiting for a friend to come and pick her up for church.
As she stepped out to wait by the curb, she fell and broke her hip.
Normally, this would almost be considered a death sentence for anyone at that tender age, however, we are talking about Aunt Bea.
She had surgery on Monday, and will be in rehab by today.
I called the hospital on Tuesday afternoon, hoping her daughter would be there for me to speak with.
The hospital had no one by that name.
I called her daughter’s home, but got no answer.
I started getting nervous, wondering what was going on.
Then after about a half hour, I had a flash of inspiration.
“Oh, that’s right, her first name is Mary!”
So I called the hospital back and sure enough, they had her listed under “Mary” and I was switched to her room.
Guess who answered the phone.
Bea. Or “Mary.”
Spry as ever.
She told me they had just had her up walking around and were tucking her into bed.
I asked what happened and relayed the same story her daughter had but embellished it with, “boy, what a stupid thing for me to do!”
I asked if she had suffered any other injuries, like did she hit her head, or her face, or did she hurt her hands or knees.
Nothing. Not a scrape. Not a scratch. Didn’t bump her head, didn’t fall on her knees, just alley-ooped and landed smack on her hip.
She said she knew immediately that she’d broken it, but it didn’t hurt too much. More of an ache.
I thought how absolutely banged up I would have been if I’d fallen off a curb, or just mis-stepped off a curb. I probably would have had two broken wrists and at least one twisted ankle or broken knee cap or both.
My big ol’ melon head would have bounced off the pavement and I probably would’ve smacked my nose somewhere in those few brief seconds it takes to go from standing to landing on my over ample jelly booty.
I know that I would have fared much worse than a delicate little 99-year-old firebrand.
God love her?
God does love her, because she loves him.
Somewhere up there is an 8-man team loaded with pillows and safety nets on her behalf.
They are at the ready, springing into action milliseconds before she’s on the ground.
I know if I want that team on my side, I’ve gotta get this over ample jelly booty in gear and get right with God.
He don’t hold no pillows for the devil.
Or for heathens, according to my brother the priest.
Living your life right will earn you some extra miles.
Just ask Bea.