Fillalou

My Grandfather Irish had nicknames for all of us grandchildren. Some dealt with attitude, some dealt with ability. Today, some of the nicknames would probably get him into trouble. A prime example would be his nickname for my cousin, Tim. Tim was simply known as "That Friggin' Kid". Believe it or not, it fit.

My nickname, on the other hand, was Fillalou. According to my Grandfather, a Fillalou was a mythical bird that flew backward to see where it had been, rather than forward to see where it was going. The result? Extreme clumsiness. It was his creative way of calling his grandkid a clutz. Like "That Friggin' Kid", "Fillalou" fit me to a T.

It likely began when I was a little over a year old, just learning to walk. My sister (KeddyJ in the comments section) decided that I 'looked stupid'. So she pushed me. INTO A COFFEE TABLE. There is still a scar over my eyebrow, if you need proof.

From that day forward, no walk down the street, no bike ride, no step off a school bus was safe. The Rennratt was sure to fall down.

I fell UP the stairs with such regularity in high school that, eventually, my bruises and bumps had bruises and bumps. Oddly, I rarely fell DOWN the stairs.

I have a scar on my scalp from a walk into town at age 16 or so. I ran into a telephone pole and drove a nail into my head.

I fell out of a school bus at age 16 and nearly broke my ankle. Naturally, it happened hours before receiving "MVP" at a SPORTS BANQUET. [I was fine at 2 pm when school let out. At 8 pm, I arrived with a cast/splint...on crutches. CLASSY.]

I regularly ran into doors, walls, parked cars. I don't know if it was from living inside my head or a true, undetected problem with balance. To my knowledge, I was never tested for hearing problems or sight issues. [Maybe my parents should have had me tested for THIS...] Other than sports physicals - which mostly were comments about how much I weighed - I rarely saw doctors at all.

By the time I hit college, I was sure that the curse of clumsiness had gone. I moved just shy of 1,000 miles from home (922, to be exact) in hopes that Fillalou had been safely left behind.

No such luck. By the time I graduated from college, I was on crutches 7 more times. My right ankle was severely weakened by the Bus Incident, and no step was safe for me. I took ONE STEP outside the cafeteria (Curse you, Benedum Hall!) and had to be taken to the ER. I was on crutches for 3 weeks. Each incident following had the same result - whether it was a friendly hike to Bickles Knob or simply a casual stroll across the room. There would be a fall, there would be pain, and someone would be driving Rennratt to the hospital.

Fast forward to...today. I am nursing a three day headache from an unfortunate encounter with a paper towel dispenser. There is a bump (under my hair), dried blood, and I'm sure, soon, there will be another scar. This time, however, I wasn't spacing out -0r even looking backward. I just had my eyes closed.

If Grandfather Irish was alive today, he would look at me, sigh, and shake his head. Then he would slowly say "Fillalou, really. You're getting worse than That Friggin' Kid".