Down fall

My problem is that I keep falling down. On the face of it, it does not appear like a very serious sort of predicament because everybody falls down at some point or another in his or her life. But on an average, if one were to take an overall account of falling people, I seem to fall more than the others. 

It happens without any warning and that is what usually takes my breath away, both literally and figuratively. I can be anywhere: taking a walk with my family, crossing a road, coming down the steps of a movie theatre, entering an aircraft, you name it and I have fallen headlong in, or around it. One minute I am walking straight and the next moment I find myself measuring my length on the floor. 

When I was younger, my favourite aunt taught me to stamp the ground where I fell. After I picked myself up, that is. It did not alleviate the hurt, but it helped to relieve my bruised ego somewhat because along with the physical injury, what also used to upset me was the ensuing embarrassment that followed. 

Children always giggled at my fall. I mean, instead of using the banana peel trick to lure unsuspecting strangers to walk on it so that they could slide and tumble down, here was someone, who would slip even on an anti-skid surface. The kids could not believe their luck as they roared in laughter. The real-life comic scene that played out before them was too funny. As a concession, they sometimes joined me in stamping the ground afterwards, as if it was the fault of the ground that made me fall. 

Somewhere along the way, when I suffered one sprained ankle too many, I decided to approach a podiatrist, which is a fancy name for a foot doctor. They are the only medical professionals who exclusively specialise in treating the lower extremities, primarily the foot and ankles.

After taking the necessary appointment I presented myself in front of a serious looking Australian doctor. My left foot still had purple bruises from the last fall that I had, less than a week ago. The doc greeted me cheerfully and then asked me if I had come to die. I was taken aback at such a blunt greeting and shook my head in a solemn response. He raised his voice slightly, thinking I was hard of hearing, and asked me again whether I had come to die. 

“Maybe I had stumbled into a euthanasia clinic,” said the voice in my head. I looked pointedly at the triangular nameplate on his desk. It read “podiatrist”. I was completely confused by now and eyed the doctor suspiciously. I accepted the fact that I was dead tired of falling down now and again but I was not ready to kick the bucket with his assistance. Not yet, anyway. Also, this medically assisted suicide, was it even legal in Jordan? 

The doctor sat up straight in his chair and it was his turn to eye me with deep suspicion. I did not realise I had spoken out aloud. 

“I cure foot problems,” he announced. 

“I don’t want to die today,” I confessed. 

“Why should you?” he asked. 

“But you just said,” I repeated what he had said. 

“I meant today, how are you today?” he enunciated. 

“Oh, I keep falling you see,” I explained. 

“Right! Lets cure your downfall,” he said.