Mostly, though, each night’s sleep brings a respite from the thoughts in my head.
In December, about a week before Christmas, I slipped outside and fractured my right arm in three places.
Of course, I didn’t know it was broken at first… when I landed on the ground and shook the shock, it just felt…wrong.
And then the dominant in me kicked into overdrive — that is, I needed to call into work, call an ambulance, and all this minutia needed to be handled. I just needed to tell my guy what to do. It kept him focused, and more importantly, it kept me focused, because the second I started to drop my guard, I started to gray out. He was, and is, a godsend.
I found out that morning that they don’t seem to set bones in hospitals anymore: it’s done on an outpatient basis. I got sent to an orthopedist who set the main bone that same morning. I was in a hard cast for twenty-four hours and by the next morning, they had inserted three pins and a plate. My plate has a serial number on it, so if they ever find my bleached out bones in a desert somewhere, they can send it to Hodges for identification (not really, since Hodges is in Trace).
Long story short: tomorrow is six weeks to the day they inserted my hardware.
There are moments when I feel sorry for myself, mostly because of all of the photos I couldn’t take over the holidays, but sometimes I feel sorry because I’m almost 48 years old. That seems to be enough to make me feel weepy and alone, even though I am not alone. I am loved and cared for and about, but I still feel weepy and alone.
“….my love is an anchor tied to you
Tied with a silver chain.”