These Things Happen...to me

My grandmother lived to be 102.  And she lived well.  Sharp as a tack right up until the end.  It wasn't until the last couple of years that her care required a nursing facility, where Mom would visit every day.  On vacations home, I would accompany her, spending hours in my grandmother's room, visiting, playing cards, and one particular summer, knitting.

That summer I also met one of my grandmother's friends whom she had come to know at her new residence.  Dorothy was a ray of sunshine, and I was immediately taken with her.  She would scoot along on her wheelchair as regal as a queen, topped off with jewelry and hair done immaculately, "Hello, Duchess," she would say to my grandmother as she wheeled close enough to kiss Grandma's cheeck.  I loved that greeting.  I took a mental note to add that to my personal salutations after age 70.  I think it's that neat.  In fact, as I got to know Dorothy, there were many of her attributes I found worth adopting.  She was delightful, ebullient, and quick-witted.  I always looked forward to chatting with her.

One day, as I sat with my bare feet propped against grandma's footstool, one leg crossed over the other, my knitting resting on my knees as they jutted upward, Dorothy made her appearance at the door.  "Hello, Duchess," she smiled.

As she scooted toward Grandma, I noticed my shoes lying directly in her path.  Not wanting to impede her, I moved quickly to retrieve them.  She, too, bent forward to move them, and somewhere between her movement and my unwinding limbs, the unthinkable happened:  I kicked poor Dorothy right in the face.  I did.  In slow motion I saw my foot connect, her head rear backward, her hand moving to cup her nose.  I can only imagine my eyes--big as saucers, I bet.  A nightmare, I tell you! 

"Oh, my gosh!  I am so sorry!!" I erupted.

And to her credit, Dorothy was as graceful in this moment as she was in any other.  "Oh, that's alright, dear," she said.  "You just got me across the bridge of the nose."

How was I to recover from such an incident?  There is no etiquette rule written in regards to kicking an old woman in the face.  I've checked.  And so I was left to my own devices, which is never good. 

I was so horrified I started to giggle.  I could not stop, try as I might and despite my mother's glares.  As Dorothy and Grandmother visited, I giggled, chortled, and snickered as silently as I could manage bent over my knitting.  The entire event was beyond reason.  I was so far off-script that there were no words to convey my humiliation.  Just fits of uncontrollable laughter, also to my horror.

I don't know exactly what happened after that.  Dorothy left as some point.  I'm sure I apologized at least 100 times.  Then I asked Grandma and Mom, "Can you believe that happened?" another 100 times more.  I hoped and prayed Dorothy wouldn't awaken with two black eyes.  And then, that night, when I spoke to Mr. Wicke by phone, he asked, "How was your day?"

"Well...you won't believe it," I started.  But he did.  He believed the whole thing.

And sadly, it didn't take much convincing, because these things happen...to me.