You’ve probably read about Erica Jong’s book published last year, Fear of Dying, the sequel, if you will, to her bestseller of the 1970s, Fear of Flying.
Alas, in my youth, I was mesmerized by that book and its protagonist, Isadora Wing. She wanted so much, freedom, ideal love, but found herself caught between old feminine constructs and the (then) new feminist imperative.
It was all there in her name, Wing, signifying flight, but without the plural form, perhaps presaging a not altogether successful endeavor. And then there was the first name, Isadora, like Isadora Duncan, the dancer, bringing to mind another kind of flight. That Isadora was renowned for agility and freedom of movement, accentuated by her floating scarves. Until, that is, one of them, flowing in the wind behind the convertible in which she was a passenger, became entangled in the rear axle and broke her neck.
So there was irony for you.
Like her namesake the dancing Isadora, Jong’s Isadora Wing wanted to defy the bonds of gravity too, but remained earthbound by that nagging fear of flying. It was euphemistic, of course. What she really wanted was the now infamous “zipless fuck” (can I say that, or do I have to do: f..k ?), because in her experience the reality never matched the ideal she longed for.
Oh well, all that seems a long time ago now. I’m over Fear of Flying, but I’m not ready yet for Fear of Dying either. A more captivating read today would be Fear of Falling. I may have it—and many my age do.
This fear isn’t something leading edge boomers ever want to accept. We cling to our notions of invulnerability. And we definitely don’t want to be associated with those who clutch the railing every time they are confronted with a flight of stairs. Let me be clear, though, going up may present its own problem, like not wanting to appear too winded too quickly, but the real challenge is in going down.
I know when I’m at certain theatres where, from the balcony, as I walk down the aisle to find my seat and it looks like one false move would send me flying out and into the orchestra pit below, I forego all dignity and hold onto the railing for dear life. If there’s no railing, I may grab a shoulder or the head of some poor seated patron. It’s humiliating, but I’m not one to risk a fall.
After I apologize, I slink into my seat, thinking maybe of the days when as a teenager I took flying leaps off the mini-trampoline we cheerleaders bounced from to demonstrate our exuberance for some footballer or basketball player. But the real thrill was of flight, that moment in air, before becoming once again earthbound.
Something must happen to our perception of what it means to descend when we get old (er). Suddenly the bottom looks so far away, and the steps leading to it, so steep.
Fear of falling is so common it has its own acronym: FOF (of course).
Although labeled a natural fear typical of most humans and even mammals, the affliction has been documented most often in those 65 or older, whether they have fallen previously (there’s a name for it: post-fall syndrome) or not. Often the fear is debilitating and for good reason. It appears falls among the elderly are the leading cause of injury-related deaths.
It’s no mystery, I guess, this fear. Even my aging Labrador retriever knows not to attempt those gravity-defying leaps he performed so expertly just a few years ago.
All we have to do is look at what happens when we age to understand it: reaction time slows, we become stiffer, less agile, muscles become weaker, eyesight falters. Yikes! Thinking of it this way, it’s a miracle anyone over 65 attempts walking from the bed to the sofa.
But we do, we get up, and we go on, albeit more cautiously perhaps. Even though I no longer leap from trampolines, I’m happy to be somewhere between Fear of Flying and Fear of Dying. Even though I’m somewhere on the FOF continuum, between not at all afraid and scared to get out of bed in the morning, I’m grateful that at times I can be found in my own small way still trying to slip the surly bonds of earth.