A Lesson in Ladder Safety
As a child, I remember the moment my father fell through the ceiling of our home while climbing into the roof cavity. I ran into the room to find his legs dangling from the ceiling, and for a moment, I was terrified that he might not have been okay. But miraculously, he was unharmed. Several years later, he fell off a ladder while cleaning the gutter, returning to the house dazed but still fine. These incidents made me wonder why older men take such risks with their lives.
I’ve often thought about why middle-aged men are so reckless when it comes to climbing ladders or working at heights. Do they think they’re invincible? Do they forget that they’re aging? Or do they only realize the danger once they’ve already fallen?
Well, I may now have some answers to those questions.
Recently, I decided to wash my windows after noticing they were covered in dirt and debris. “I can pressure-hose them!” I thought, excitedly. My partner had given me a high-power hose, and I had already used it to clean my courtyard, balcony, and car. However, I hadn’t yet cleaned the windows.
I hauled out the machine and an extension cord, put on an old T-shirt and flip-flops, and went outside. The first time I turned it on, nothing happened because I forgot to turn on the water. After attaching the machine to the tap and trying again, it worked. I spent about 20 minutes shooting water at the windows with incredible force, feeling very energetic.
But then I noticed my toe was bleeding. It was turning purple, but it wasn’t sore—probably because it was numb.
Unfortunately, there were some stubborn cobwebs around the window frames that I couldn’t remove with water. No problem, I thought. I grabbed the stepladder and began hosing from the top step. If anyone had been watching, they would have screamed at the screen: “Are you insane? You’re middle-aged! What are you doing up there? Do you want to fall?”
Unluckily, I was alone and naive. I knew men fell off ladders, but I thought it didn’t apply to me. Plus, I wasn’t on a regular ladder—I was on a stepladder, which I assumed was safer.
Alas, the ladder didn’t get the memo. And what happened next seemed inevitable now, but it was quite surprising at the time: I slipped and fell off.
I remember losing my balance and feeling momentarily weightless. Oh no, I thought. I am in the air! Then I was yelling, gliding, sliding on the wet ground, and finally lying still.
How did that happen? I thought. I’m not a middle-aged man!
Happily, I wasn’t hurt. My left hand was grazed, and there was blood dripping down my right arm, but they were just minor wounds. I groaned, hauled myself up, and noticed my toe was bleeding too. It was rapidly turning purple, but it wasn’t sore—probably because it was completely numb. I bent down to examine it but shrieked at the searing pain in my right side.
The toe would have to wait.
I hobbled inside and leaned against a chair. This, I imagined, was what a man would feel if he foolishly fell off a ladder.
“Mum!” my daughter exclaimed. “Are you OK? What happened?”
“I fell off the stepladder,” I told her. “Can you get me some ice?”
“Oh dear,” she said, and then her face brightened. “Didn’t Papa fall off a ladder? Now you have something in common.”
I called my partner, who I knew would be supportive. “What on earth were you doing up a ladder?” he asked. “Did you think you were a middle-aged man?”
“It was a stepladder,” I protested. Why did everyone blame the victim?
I spoke to my mum, my friends, and my other two children. They were all sympathetic, but mostly just outraged. “What were you thinking?” they all cried. “Why were you climbing a ladder? Did you not realise the risks? Did you forget your age?”
The shoe was on the other foot! Then off the foot, and off the ladder.
