I fell. No, not in love. I fell in the way that assures me that gravity is not my friend. It was as if in slow motion. I was in the shower, wiping down the faux tile surround, when I decided to step out. I put my foot on the floor, and it slid away from me. I reached up to grab the faux metal towel rack and slammed my forearm into it, dislodging it from the wall. Then, because this is slow motion, remember, I twisted my body away from the wall to avoid the inevitable leg split. In doing so, the weight of my body fell onto the edge of the toilet and I landed on the floor with a sloppy thump.

It’s now a week later and the bruises have almost faded. My forearm was nearly black where it had hit the towel bar. My back and hip are recovering slowly. I’m tired of laying down. I never thought I would say that.

In place of the faux metal towel bar, is a three foot long stainless steel handrail. It’s almost embarrassing. I feel like old age is gesticulating wildly, trying to draw my attention, lest I forget it is there. But I didn’t see an alternative. So many people depend upon me to be active and alert that I can’t take the risk of a major injury. Three falls in ten years demands action.

This morning, when I finished my shower, I realized that I now have a process for exiting the tub. Before stepping into it, I make sure that the mat comes right up to the tub wall. No floor can show. Then when I am done, I grab the handrail and sidestep out of the tub, onto the floor. Then I breathe.

In looking at the handrail, I realized something monumental. I am now afraid.

As I said, I have fallen in the bathroom before. One of the times, I was nine months pregnant and went into labor the next day. The waist belts on the fetal monitors hurt my bruised flesh to the point of eliciting tears. I was convinced that my infant son wanted to jump ship because I was so clumsy.

But I wasn’t afraid of falling. Indeed, last week, I practically danced out of the shower. I like being clean and smelling like pomegranate or coconut lime verbena. I am bolder, smarter, and sexier when I smell like fruit.

Sadly, those days are just a memory now. I have a hand rail and I am now afraid.

By nature, I am not a fearful person. I have attributed that to my faith in God. While I do not believe that I will be spared the falls in my life, I am convinced that I will not be alone, and that I will have all that I need to survive the aftermath.

It has been said that religious people use their faith as a safety net of sorts. It’s a crutch for the lame. That doesn’t make sense to me in the light of recent events. As I look back over the last twenty years of my life as a religious person, I see that I have been quite fearless. I married my first boyfriend at the tender age of 21. I had four children when I was warned that having a child could result in progression of my neuromuscular disease. I packed up everything I owned and began a new life 2300 miles away, with no friends or family or even a job. My husband and I started our own contracting company. I chose to homeschool my sons. And I write these articles, opening my thoughts and feelings to public scrutiny.

My experience with faith has brought intensity to my life. I take chances. I love deeply. I give much. I forgive great debts. I don’t hold grudges. My faith is not a crutch, allowing me to accomplish only what an able bodied person can do. It’s not a safety net, catching me when I fall – because believe me, I land hard, and usually in public. Nor is it a hand rail, requiring that I hold on with a white knuckle grip while stepping carefully.

Faith is not an external tool. It’s the strength in your legs. It’s the width of your shoulders so that you can carry many burdens. It’s the bend in your knees that permit you to look a child in the eye, to pick up the discarded, and to kneel in prayer.

Still, I won’t take down the hand rail. I need it for now. I will likely need it until I forget the feeling of falling and twisting in slow motion. I’ll need it until I can remember to rinse my feet before stepping out of the tub. For now, the hand rail is my true safety net and crutch. It will compensate for my weaknesses so that I can perform like a normal person. It’s living your life without the hand rails, that is a life of faith.

by Lorna Peden Waterman contributing writer for Fabulously40