Small Mercies
How can I meet the ‘what-is-ness’ of this moment?
It still feels traumatic that I fell in the first place. I’d skied so well the whole morning. And when I can’t sleep, I replay those few seconds of losing my balance. I don’t know why. The loss of attention, the distraction of an angry out-of-control world. I crashed to the ground and heard something crack, and knew it was bad. The searing pain, something out of this world.
I was with my husband, the sun was shining, and it was not yet 3:00. An elderly couple passed by and asked if I was OK. Well maybe those were not the words used as it was pretty clear I was not OK. They immediately offered to help us get to the hospital, but their car was parked far away. I don’t remember how long everything took because pain does something strange with time—making it feel like it’s forever when maybe it was only 10 minutes or half an hour at most. My husband gathered our skis and we started walking to the closest road. We had some connection but weren’t sure who to even phone. When we got to the top of the road, we saw two elderly men packing up their photography equipment. They’d been shooting pictures of moose. One of them offered to take us to the emergency room. The man who drove us was kind, the sweetness in his eyes…though he couldn’t remove the pain or take back the time so that I hadn’t fallen.
Early afternoon, only a few people waiting. The sound of my screams must have alerted the staff, for within seconds they put me in a wheelchair and briskly took me to be X-rayed. Two kind nurses and one female doctor wheeled me into a private room, gave me painkillers and explained what happened. One of the most painful places to fracture your arm in the humerus bone, the largest bone of the upper extremity of the arm. So sure I’d dislocated my shoulder, I’d hoped my shoulder could be snapped back in and everything would be fine. Alas, no, the doctor said, it’s not your shoulder and it will take at least eight weeks to heal. I screamed as they put my arm into a sling and bent it at the elbow.
Could have stayed in the hospital a few nights and given intense painkillers, opiates. An addictive kind of person with long-term sobriety and good healthy living, the last thing I wanted was to become overly fond of these opiates, so we went home.
Before the fall, I’d been distressed with events in the US and other places in the world and kept it at bay with hectic activities: writing, music, teaching, skiing, swimming, yoga, dance, organizing workshops coming up. Now everything screeched to a stop, everything that gave my life meaning and distraction from that deep well of sadness. What should I do now?
A weird slow motion those first days. Every movement sending ricochets of pain. So fragile is life. Day after day, forced to ask for help, getting used to this vulnerability, this need. Like a wounded animal…
Day after day, like a little child learning to move. Getting dressed, preparing food, washing my hair, getting back to writing. All with one arm. Aching for my creative activities––my loyal friends. I sit at the piano and play with one arm, a beginning. The guitar is still too hard.
Three weeks in, getting stronger, I walk in the nearby forest and sing. It’s cold and wintry, with new-fallen snow. A scarf wrapped close to warm my throat, I sing while walking with my broken arm in a sling. How good it feels to sing to the bare trees and frozen ground. So lost in sounding, I don’t notice a woman approaching. When I see her, I stop abruptly, embarrassed. Oh please don’t stop singing because of me, she says. I love hearing you. That makes me feel so happy, a part of life again.