What happened was, I broke the First Rule of Being Over Seventy.
First Rule of Being Over Seventy: Don't fall!
Fortunately I didn't break anything else. I was tidying up the home gym when my feet got tangled with each other somehow. I lost balance, keeled over, and landed with my full weight (180 lbs.) on a stray dumbell. The point of impact was quite precisely the fleshiest part of the human frame—well, of mine—and that accounts for no bones having been broken.
The dusky melancholy sprites who afflict us with minor troubles, thus frustrated in their attack on my skeleton, took their revenge on my soft tissues. Over the next week I developed the Mother of All Bruises: a vast black terrain of shattered capillaries and homeless blood.
I could not sit; my right hip joint went on strike; standing for long was painful; likewise lying down in any normal position. My only relief was to lie prone, face in a pillow, chancing suffocation. It is actually possible to sleep in that position, although it took me three or four unhappy nights to master the art. Sleeping prone is harder than you'd think.
Now, at month end, everything's much better. The Mother of All Bruises faded from black to purple and split into lesser units. Watching this day by day has brought to mind plate tectonics: one of those YouTube clips of Pangea, the ancient super-continent, breaking up into Africa, Asia, the Americas, and so on.
As my dear mother used to say: Worse things happen at sea. I am sure there are people reading this who have far greater misfortunes to contend with. My honest sympathies. I wouldn't have given as much of an account as this, but people have been asking.