I Can't Get Up
the commune's Rok Finger delves deep into the issue of health care for the elderly 

Monday, Apr. 16, 2001
Help me! Good people, this is not a lark, I’m serious—I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.

I can excuse the snickering and guffaws from the peanut gallery. I, too, have witnessed those B-grade commercials for elderly alarm devices in which pathetic crones are horizontal in embarrassing positions, crying and screaming in weak cinema pathos about their inability to get up. I, too, have lampooned such advertisements—but this is serious! I really can’t get up!

Ow… ooo… I think I landed on my keys, too, to make it worse. Yikes, that smarts! This is no longer amusing. At first it held a bit of self-deprecating charm, but now I’m terrified I’ll never be able to get up. Help me!

This just isn’t funny. I can’t even move and nobody’s helping me. I wish I had one of those damned alert devices now, I can see the wisdom of one now that I’m in this situation. ARRRRGH! I just moved a little and it really hurts! I’m not doing this for comic effect! I’m in serious agony!

I just stepped into the bathroom to change a light bulb, climbed up on the toilet—without having the foresight to close the lid first—and then my foot slipped right into the mouth of the toilet and I fell backwards with severe impact against the bathtub. Ouch! It hurts even more when I recall the incident, still fresh in my quickly-fading consciousness. I don’t even know where the light bulb went… I heard a glassy smash when I hit, but I worry that could’ve been my own spine. I certainly don’t feel much pain below the neck. Surely, if I could feel intense pain I could likewise move, but both seem just fond memories to me now.

I hope my wife comes home soon. She stepped out for more light bulbs, ironically. Maybe I’d find that more amusing if I wasn’t broken into pieces with my foot in a toilet, pain gnawing at me like a rat on my nerves.

Christ, almighty, how long does it take that woman to buy light bulbs? Is she making them from scratch?!? And what’s with you people? I’m in pain and you sons of bitches are sitting there reading the commune like it holds the meaning of life! I’m just asking for a goddamn ambulance or something! Shit on fire, help me!

Next column I hope to tackle the touchy subject of teenage pregnancy. If I’m not fucking dead by then, which seems like a blissful alternative at this point.