When I was a child, my father climbed up a ladder into the roof cavity of our home, and promptly fell through the ceiling. I know this because I ran into the room to find his legs hanging from the ceiling, then spent an agonising minute screaming, unsure if his torso and head were still attached to them. Miraculously, he was completely unharmed.
Several years later, that same father fell off a ladder while attempting to clean the gutter. He wandered back into the house, dazed and confused, with a leaf in his hair, to tell my mum. Again, he was somehow unhurt, though rather more chastened this time.
My father is a man, and older men do, fairly regularly, fall from heights. A middle-aged male friend of mine fell off the roof of his house and sustained fairly serious injuries. Another man of my acquaintance fell off his ladder while doing repairs and badly hurt his back.
I’ve often wondered why older men are so foolish to take such silly risks with their lives and limbs. Do they think they’re immortal? Do they forget they have aged? Or do they not see any danger until they’ve actually toppled over, and are suddenly and dramatically on their way down?
Well, I may now have some answers to those questions.
Recently, I decided to wash my windows after noticing they were caked in dirt and debris. “I can pressure-hose them!” I thought, gleefully. My partner had recently bought me a high-power hose and I’d learnt that it is extremely fun to clean things with jets of water. I’d already cleaned my courtyard, my balcony and my car but, incredibly, had not yet cleaned the windows.
I hauled out the machine and an extension cord, donned an old T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops, headed outside, and switched on the power. Nothing happened because I’d forgotten to turn on the water (I’m not exactly an expert handyman). I attached the machine to the tap, turned it on and tried again. This time it worked and I spent a happy 20 minutes or so shooting water at the windows with incredible force while feeling virtuously energetic.
I groaned, hauled myself up, and noticed that my toe was bleeding, too. It was rapidly turning purple, but it wasn’t sore, probably because it was completely numb.
KERRI SACKVILLE
Unfortunately, there were some baked-on cobwebs around the window frames I could not remove with water. No problem, I thought. I grabbed the stepladder, climbed it, and began hosing from the top step. Had anyone thought to film me, perched on the stepladder in my soaking wet flip-flops, this is the point at which they would yell at the screen: “Are you insane? You’re middle-aged! What are you doing up there? Do you want to fall?”
Unfortunately, I was alone, and naive. I knew men fell off ladders, but I’m a woman, so that didn’t apply to me. And besides, I wasn’t up an actual ladder – I was on a stepladder, which isn’t the same thing at all.
Alas, the ladder did not get the memo. And what happened seems inevitable now, but it was quite surprising at the time: I slipped and fell off.
I remember losing my balance, and feeling momentarily weightless. Oh no, I recall thinking. I am in the air! And then I was yelling, and then I was gliding, and then I was sliding on the wet ground, and then I was a little bit crumpled, and then I was lying quite still.
How did that happen? I thought. I’m not a middle-aged man!
Happily, I wasn’t hurt. I mean, my left hand was grazed and there was blood dripping down my right arm, but they were just flesh wounds. I groaned, hauled myself up, and noticed that my toe was bleeding, too. It was rapidly turning purple, but it wasn’t sore, probably because it was completely numb. I bent down to examine it but shrieked at the searing pain in my right side.
The toe would have to wait.
I hobbled inside and leaned against a chair. This, I imagined, was what a man would feel if he foolishly fell off a ladder.
“Mum!” my daughter exclaimed. “Are you OK? What happened?”
“I fell off the stepladder,” I told her. “Can you get me some ice?”
“Oh dear,” she said, and then her face brightened. “Didn’t Papa fall off a ladder? Now you have something in common.”
I phoned my partner, who I knew would be far more supportive. “What on earth were you doing up a ladder?” he asked. “Did you think you were a middle-aged man?”
“It was a stepladder,” I protested. Why did everyone blame the victim?
I spoke to my mum, my friends, my other two children. They were all sympathetic, but mostly just outraged. “What were you thinking?” they all cried. “Why were you climbing a ladder? Did you not realise the risks? Did you forget your age?”
The shoe was on the other foot! Then off the foot, and off the ladder.
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Kerri Sackville is an author, columnist and mother of three. Her new book is The Secret Life of You: How a bit of alone time can change your life, relationships and maybe the world.Connect via X or Facebook.
