Broken bones and new stories
This week I have to revisit an old story, a story from the year 2000. A story that started with a trip to Houston, a Ford Explorer and one bad tire. Returning to Austin, my daughter and I found ourselves, and the Explorer, flip flopping down Highway 290, across the median and on to the other side of the road. That night, instead of meeting my daughter's math tutor, as planned, we were in back in Austin, in the emergency room. There began a long period of recovery and soul searching and finally healing. Four years and a few months later, we're mostly just fine, or we were, I was.
I just learned on Tuesday that the arm that was injured back in 2000, the arm that I thought was just "sore" or just needed a little "exercise", was actually broken again. I saw the xray and the Dr. met my eyes and began discussing how he was going to treat this new injury.
Being bred from true Texas grit, being a dig my heels in kind of girl, I thought the pain was something that I needed to buck up to, something that would learn to live with. Now, I know that the only thing that will fix the pain is a nice, sturdy rod of bio metal and some well placed bone grafts. So, next week, my boyfriend will drive me to the hospital, and I'll check in and once again offer up my arm to the talent of a skilled surgeon. This time, I'll recover more quickly. Surely. I'm in good health, my attitude is mostly pretty good and I'm not recovering from shock, road burns and a bruised lung.
Just a few weeks ago, I was hiking the trails of Big Bend, scrambling on rocks, thinking that the pain in my arm was from the heat, forgetting about that bruise the time I'd accidentally bumped into the wall, maneuvering around one of the dogs.
Maybe we all kid ourselves that we are strong than we think we are. I like to remember my days as a conga drummer, when my arms never failed me. My arms were strong, beautiful, arms. Arms that could hold the world together. That was then.
I'm glad once again to have two arms, even with one that may be forever damaged, weaker than the other, scarred enough to bring in plenty of concerned stares. One arm has a nice brave scar, a scar that next week will become braver and more interesting. Still, I have both of them, for that I am grateful.
I just learned on Tuesday that the arm that was injured back in 2000, the arm that I thought was just "sore" or just needed a little "exercise", was actually broken again. I saw the xray and the Dr. met my eyes and began discussing how he was going to treat this new injury.
Being bred from true Texas grit, being a dig my heels in kind of girl, I thought the pain was something that I needed to buck up to, something that would learn to live with. Now, I know that the only thing that will fix the pain is a nice, sturdy rod of bio metal and some well placed bone grafts. So, next week, my boyfriend will drive me to the hospital, and I'll check in and once again offer up my arm to the talent of a skilled surgeon. This time, I'll recover more quickly. Surely. I'm in good health, my attitude is mostly pretty good and I'm not recovering from shock, road burns and a bruised lung.
Just a few weeks ago, I was hiking the trails of Big Bend, scrambling on rocks, thinking that the pain in my arm was from the heat, forgetting about that bruise the time I'd accidentally bumped into the wall, maneuvering around one of the dogs.
Maybe we all kid ourselves that we are strong than we think we are. I like to remember my days as a conga drummer, when my arms never failed me. My arms were strong, beautiful, arms. Arms that could hold the world together. That was then.
I'm glad once again to have two arms, even with one that may be forever damaged, weaker than the other, scarred enough to bring in plenty of concerned stares. One arm has a nice brave scar, a scar that next week will become braver and more interesting. Still, I have both of them, for that I am grateful.
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