A fall

What doesn’t happen is important, too

I paid a visit to a new chiropractor the other day. I have chronic problems with my neck, arms and wrists. All from being a writer, you might say. But that’s not the reason. I have three cervical vertebrae that are in a straight line, rather than part of the normal, healthy curve of the human neck, and after a lifetime of coping, tolerating, and unsuccessful treatment plans, the discomfort has become intolerable. How, you might ask, could such a thing be possible?

Because when I was a toddler I fell off a roof and landed on my head.

My parents never said a word of this to me. I don’t know if they didn’t think it was important anymore, since I wasn’t dead, or if they didn’t want to worry me, or what. Life goes on. But my brother, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old at the time—possibly eleven—was traumatized. He is the one who told me the story.

My dad was putting on an addition because there were only three bedrooms in the house, and I was the third child. So he and my brother were on the roof working, when I climbed up the ladder after them. My brother exclaimed “Janet’s up here!” and reached out for me. I leaned backward to evade his grasp, and fell.

This is a story I’ve known for a long time. And I knew about the vertebrae, too. I had just never met anyone who could fix it. But for the first time this week, I fully grasped the reality of my whole life. The chiropractor, having studied the x-rays, looked at me and said: Do you realize what could have happened? Somewhat blithely, I replied that I could have died.

My poor parents must have been terrified.

As I was driving home, my dismissive attitude suddenly evaporated and I saw, with full clarity that I could have been paralyzed. And in those days, that made it very likely that I would not have reached adulthood.

In a few swift seconds I saw the scope of my life: of the opportunities, talents, joys, and blessings I have been given. Not earned. Given.

And every single thing that has happened since—things I thought were terrible, hard, cruel or unfair—shifted instantly into a thousand miracles.

Gifts incur obligations. My obligation is to be grateful. To see beauty. To see joy. To acknowledge the good things and the hardships as one mighty and all-encompassing opportunity for a life here on earth.

My mother wanted to name me Kathleen. But my father was the one who chose “Janet”. It is the feminine form of John, and is said to mean “God’s gracious gift”. Now, for the first time, I understand that God was not giving the gift of a child to others. The gift was to me.

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