"I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself."
D. H. Lawrence
For the past nine nights,
I dreamed I could walk only to awaken the next morning to a broken ankle. The
disappointment hit me. There was no gold medal hanging around my neck because I didn’t
smoke the competition at the 5K race I thought I had won. My mind cleared after I wiped the sleep from
my eyes. My sneakers were in the closet. The wheelchair and walker took their
place next to my bed.
I can’t complain. Five weeks will whiz by like the last summer
vacation. Today isn’t a time for self-pity. I must rejoice. A skilled surgeon
drilled holes in the bones for the screws that realigned my joints. In time, the
fractures will heal. I will walk again. That wouldn’t have happened a couple
hundred years ago.
My husband is out running the trails as I write this. I’m
thankful he can. No one has helped me more since the accident though I have
close friends who have gone the extra mile. Mary Lou, Marie, Bonnie, Raven,
Blake, Yolanda, and Father Williams made sure I had what I needed.
When my husband returns,
he and I will enjoy the sunshine on our backyard patio. It’s a good day to
catch the rays and listen to the radio—a rare treat for February.
In the coming weeks, I
will use the extra time to write. No one ever needed a working ankle to write stories.
