In the world of writing, “convoluted,” is a bad word. Apparently, in the world of broken bones, it’s not good either.
Last night…or early this morning…we were awoken by a call for help. One of our neighbor’s houses was on fire, the fire department hadn’t yet arrived, and other houses were in danger of sparks. We rushed out to help, soaking fences and trees with water, and the fire trucks finally arrived. In the midst of all this, as I was rushing to get something for one of the hoses, I fell. It was a hard fall…no one saw as they were all busy with exploding windows and growing flames. All I wanted to do was shake it off and get on with what needed to be done. But when I tried to push myself up my right arm wasn’t working right. When I looked at it, I saw that it lay there at a strange angle. That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong.
I did get myself up, delivered the hose piece they were waiting for, then I quietly announced that I needed to go to the hospital. You can imagine my frustration…my disappointment. A neighbor’s house was burning to the ground, all I wanted to do was help, and suddenly I’m the emergency. At the Emergency Room, after a shot of morphine and X-rays, I learned that I had a convoluted fracture in my right humerus. In other words, my upper arm is broken in two places with some loose shards.
It’s been a frightening, emotional 24-hours. I’m so sorry for my neighbors who are left with no home. I’m also nervous and scared as I wait to find out if I’ll need surgery, how I will finish my current job, how I’ll start my new job, how I’ll be a writer with no right hand or arm to use! (Typing this with my left hand on my cell phone.)
My near-writerly-future seems convoluted, indeed.