Healing my Fractured Self
Broken bones and being let go won’t break me
I fell on Tuesday, August 18.
Getting petrol at a service station, I tripped on broken concrete.
I’d put my hand out in front of me. The impact slammed my wrist backwards, twisted my ankle, skinned both knees and made me feel as if something died inside.
My head buzzed the way a phone does on vibrate.
The sun was setting, light was dim, I lay on the concrete, unable to move.
In a high traffic area by the bowsers, I inched my way up sideways. No sudden movements, everything throbbed. Within seconds, five different pains competed to be the loudest screamer in my body.
My wrist won the challenge, stinging like a field of nettles. I held the hand in front of my face, watching it quiver. Couldn’t straighten fingers, couldn’t bend my palm forwards or back, and couldn’t bare the thought of driving another hour to an emergency department in the city an hour away.
I gathered I’d be caught on camera, but there was no one around to see me go down and laugh, try to help me up or feel sorry for me. I was so relieved there were no bystanders.
Paying for fuel, I mentioned the incident to the attendant. I sat in my car a while before moving…
