It’s hard to believe it’s been almost two weeks since that awkward, jarring moment when I found myself sprawled on the hard tile floor of the Promenade Café. One second, I was shuffling along at my usual careful pace, and the next, my knees met the cold tiles with an unforgiving thud. There wasn’t a drop of moisture, a stray napkin, or even the slightest slick spot to blame. No, the culprit was simply my unreliable gait; these legs of mine, which often have a mind of their own, just didn’t lift quite high enough. And down I went.

Thank goodness I didn’t face-plant. Somehow, my hands shot forward just in time to soften the fall, though even that left me with a tender, bruised hand for a few days. But the star of the show, the real drama, was my right knee. Within minutes, it ballooned into a swollen, angry mound of black-and-blue evidence that yes, I had indeed hit the floor harder than I realized. Now, almost two weeks later, it’s still a constant companion in the form of a nagging ache.

Part of me didn’t want to write about the fall at all. Over these many years of sharing our daily lives, I’ve chronicled my fair share of medical dilemmas, perhaps too many. Transparency has become a thread woven through this odd tapestry of our nomadic life. But this time, I wanted to skip the injury part and fast-forward to the good moments. I tried to make light of it, to carry on as though nothing had happened. And to be fair, I did a pretty good job of that from the outside. But behind the scenes, I was dutifully icing the knee several times a day in our cabin, elevating my leg whenever possible, and quietly planning my movements like someone much older than me.

Still, I refuse to be a complainer. It isn’t in my nature. And so, despite the bruising and the swelling and the wince-inducing sting each time I put weight on that leg, we continued to have an absolutely fantastic time. We’ve enjoyed leisurely dinners with new friends, laughed over shared stories, and played countless rounds of trivia. I’ve learned that when I’m sitting comfortably, the knee becomes almost an afterthought, as though my body grants me these little pockets of normalcy. It’s only when I stand that reality comes rushing back, reminding me that healing has its own agenda.

Somehow, despite my hobbling, we managed to disembark the ship a few times. Our most memorable outing was meeting Louise and Danie in Cape Town on November 14. Thankfully, the cruise terminal there is designed with practicality in mind. They met us right in the food court, just a short distance from where the ship was docked. I could manage that without too much trouble. And in just 12 days, we’re scheduled to meet up with our dear friends Rita and Gerhard in Benoa, Bali. I’m hopeful, optimistic even, that by then, the knee will be considerably better. At least good enough to get through another heartwarming reunion.

Ice has become my closest ally. Several times a day, like clockwork, I’ve pressed the cold, double-plastic-bags ice onto the tender area, watching it slowly calm the swelling and numb the discomfort. The fact that I can still walk, however awkwardly, reassures me that nothing was broken. There was no need for a pricey visit to the ship’s doctor, something I’d rather avoid unless absolutely necessary. It’s simply a severe bruise that demands patience more than anything else.

The downside is that excursions have been entirely off the table. Even the sometimes long trek from the ship to the taxi stands has been unmanageable. I’ve had to come to terms with the idea that for now, I must prioritize healing over adventure. That acceptance doesn’t come easily, especially with so many tempting ports on our itinerary. But as always, life has a way of offering solutions. In Cape Town, for instance, the proximity of the terminal’s food court made everything not only doable but enjoyable. Little victories like that help keep frustration at bay.

To move about the ship, I cling affectionately to Tom’s bent arm, a habit that’s become as comforting as it is practical. He steadies me, both physically and emotionally. In the mornings, he heads to the Promenade Café an hour before I do, as always. But by then, I’ve usually gathered the courage and momentum to make my own slow, careful journey there. He insists I am never a burden, reminding me that my positive attitude has everything to do with how well we continue to enjoy ourselves, no matter the circumstances.

And truly, we have made the best of it. Even during the Silent Disco nights, when everyone else was up on their feet, moving with wild abandon, we found our own version of fun. Instead of standing, we wriggled and shimmied in our seats at the R-Bar, headsets glowing. It wasn’t the way we would have done it years ago, but it worked for us in this moment. And in many ways, the laughter we shared in those silly, seated dances made the night even more special.

Injuries heal, ships move on, and so do we. But the memories we’re making, imperfect, improvised, joyful, are the real treasure. Thank you for sharing this journey with us!

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, November 22, 2015: