It felt like a shark ripped my thigh apart. I fell in my kitchen late Sunday afternoon, dislocating the ball of my hip replacement above the socket. At the ER, I was about to undergo an x-ray to inspect the damage.

“H-m-m-m,” said an attendant, reaching under my sheet to transfer me from one stretcher to another. Her eyes wide, she added, “It looks like there’s a pan under you?”

Yep, there was. I’d forgotten about it.

Fearing Jim wouldn’t hear my screams after I fell, I had reached into a bottom drawer in search of anything that might elevate me, hoping I could stretch to an unreachable wall phone.

Thus, a fondu pot, resting atop a back board, slid under to transport me, made an unintentional visit to the ER.

I credit Chewie, our golden-doodle, for his quick response to my cries, when I fell. “Go find Jim!” I screeched, in paralyzing pain. He circled me frantically barking, then sped downstairs after my hubby.

Thankfully, I was sedated when a doctor pulled everything back into place.

Later, one doc described me in his report as a “frail, elderly woman.” It probably never occurred to him that someone of my advanced years would read his report on the hospital portal!

My dad called smart young fellows whippersnappers. Wikipedia says that’s a youthful, impertinent person, but when a doctor is about 30, 72 must look impossibly antiquated. And while I like to think elderly describes folks at least a decade my senior, my own Jim recently told someone I’m fragile.

A porcelain doll might be a better description.

I proved that Sunday night when my dislocation trauma equaled that of my January break, as if I was caught in an endless Groundhog Day time warp. To avoid dislocating it again, I wear a hinged immobilizing brace and can’t bend more than 60 degrees at the waist, for up to six weeks. A softer, foam contraption replaces it at night.

Facing frailty as we age is as old as humanity.

Jesus told Peter, the rugged fisherman, “‘. . .when you were young, you were able to do as you liked; you dressed yourself and went wherever you wanted to go. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go’” (John 21:18 NLT).

As young whippersnappers, we might avoid precarious pathways through the valley of shadows, but with years our choices narrow. No one can walk this walk in our place; we each have our own Via Dolorosa, yet there are always two sets of footsteps on the Way of Suffering.

Early on a chilly Sunday morning I once walked the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem, where Jesus stumbled toward Calvary under the weight of a cross. When I hear a voice like Debra Moore’s or Dawn Winstead’s sing Via Dolorosa, I picture the cobblestone steps Jesus traveled, assured he believed we’re worth his bloodstained agony.

Except for our group, a teenage boy on a bike was the only other person there that morning. Someone purchased a loaf of warm, yeasty bread from his bicycle basket. Sharing bread is in an ancient act of community; right now it’s our faith community that wraps us in loving care.

A good friend with advanced cancer has also suffered breaks due to this disease. She says we are charter members of the Porcelain Doll Club.

“I wish we could be the only members,” she confides. “Like you, I don’t know what to do and am thinking even sitting too long could cause trouble, but . . . second guessing is impossible. I’m just going to move as if my bones are precious porcelain and try to gear my thinking to moving with delicacy.”

My daughter Tara reminded me she had a porcelain doll with a green velvet dress and hat, edged in white. Dark curls framed her face. She was lovely, but safest on a shelf. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life on a shelf, but like my friend I need to move as if these brittle bones are cherished china.

On Monday night my grandsons burst into my hospital room, red-cheeked and full of boyish energy. They brought homemade cards for Papa Woodard and me. One had a Band-Aid on a heart. Love, human and divine, patches my fractures and mends my fears.

It was Love that intricately knit us together in the warmth of our mother’s womb. When we suffer, Love treads the Via Dolarosa beside us, bearing the weight of our hurts.

Call me elderly, frail, a china doll or Grandma, this embracing Love holds my body, soul and spirit together.

All will be well.

Hear Sandi Patty sing Via Dolorosa @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYbJINxRz6o

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette

doll photo from Pinerest

Hike at sunset in New Zealand by Tara Woodard-Lehman