I was coming home from the grocery store, arms full of bags because I was too proud to use the cart like other old ladies.
The rain had started, and these Florida sidewalks become slippery as ice when wet.
One moment I was walking, thinking about how I’d stretch the week’s budget to include Robert’s favorite cookies for his memorial dinner.
The next moment I was on the ground, my right hip screaming, and my groceries scattered across the parking lot like confetti at a funeral nobody wanted to attend.
The paramedic, a kid young enough to be my grandson, kept saying, “Ma’am, try to stay calm,” while I lay there calculating how much an ambulance ride was going to cost.
Three surgeries and four months of rehabilitation later, here I am.
Helen Carter, 68 years old, former bookkeeper, current wheelchair enthusiast.
The doctors say I might walk again with enough physical therapy, but physical therapy costs money I don’t have.
Robert’s life insurance barely covered his funeral, and Social Security doesn’t exactly fund miracles.
The house we’d bought 30 years ago when Michael was in high school became my prison.
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