Writing Prompt Wednesday: I was a lonely child.

Did you ever give a pet name to a plant, a car, a toy? Tell me about it! What made that item so important to you that you personified it?

Well, this prompt has my number. Okay. So I grew up an only child. I had a vivid imagination, I loved school, reading, and being left alone, and as such, I could count my friends on one hand. I didn't have time for anyone who didn't fit my vibe. Honestly, nine-year-old me knew who the fuck she was and what she was about. Anyway. Being alone most of the time was all well and good, but I needed someone to talk to. I had always loved having little friends to carry around - a stuffed animal, a small plastic toy, and in one case that is another story for another day, a Super Mario doll that I took to a sleepover.

This is the story of Spyri.

I forget exactly what year this was - third grade, maybe? My parents had bought me some decorative shells somewhere on one of our many trips to Cape Cod, and someone had the brilliant idea of affixing googly eyes to one of them: a long spiral shell that I named "Spyri," and fixated on immediately. I carried them around in my pocket, drew pictures of them in art class, and in all likelihood sat them on my pillow at night and lamented to them that my crush didn't like me back. 

One day, I brought Spyri with me to school. When it was lunch time, for some reason, I took them out and put them on the table to watch me eat a PB&J and some applesauce. You can probably tell where this is going. When it came time to clear the tables and go out to recess...Spyri was nowhere to be found. I had a perfectly natural response to this, which was to have a complete and total meltdown, crying hysterically in the middle of the cafeteria. The adults in charge tried to help, including one of the janitors who - bless them, honestly - dug through one of the trash bins full of pizza crusts and government-issued processed cheese food singles to try and find this stupid fucking shell with googly eyes on it that I had an unhealthy attachment to.

Alas, Spyri was nowhere to be found, and poor little me became so utterly distraught that my mom had to come pick me up. She still had to do the shopping for the week, and I remember so clearly being in the car when Pearl Jam's "Daughter" came on, sending me into hysterics again with the lyrics the picture kept will remind me, you know, because my shitty little art class picture I drew of Spyri, the anthropomorphic gift shop shell, was the only thing I had left of them. 

Prompt, I see that you are asking me what was so important about this little shell, and well. Even a surly little friendless nerd needs companionship, you know?

This time I mean it

So the last two years, huh? I really don't have any words for what so many others have already eloquently described at length; the best I can do is throw my hands up in the air and make fart noises. 

Yet, despite it all, I have made a lot of headway tackling some of my own goals during these Unprecedented Times (TM). I managed to stay active and lost somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 pounds. I got a new job that I'm really enjoying so far, after an almost comical and definitely incredibly traumatizing journey that I should probably write about. I started looking very seriously at my relationship with alcohol and cut my drinking back to almost nothing (something else I should probably write about!!)

And writing! I took a seminar through Grub Street in January called "Creating A Sustainable Writing Practice," and when I learned that the instructor was starting up a weekly Zoom writing group I signed up for that shit SO fast. And wouldn't you know, after the first session I decided it was time to dust off my novel and get to revisin'. 

So I'm back babey, and I mean it this time. Will be posting in here when the spirit moves me, talkin' about the writing process and grief and snacks and mental health and whatever else is on my mind at the time. Not going to overthink or edit too much and let's see what happens.

Ever onward, ever forward.

Mason jar of whiskey in my bathrobe pocket.

(Original post from January 2018.)

 The Universe has been pretty annoying lately with imploring me to get back to writing. From my dream wedding in September when all the intuitive, spiritual people in my life met each other for the first time and all agreed that I needed to write again and still continue to text me about it, to a very persistent Tarot card that keeps showing up, to when I fell on some black ice a couple weeks ago and fractured my tibia.

Wait. One of those things is not...

Except, well. Maybe it kind of is? I don't know, I don't necessarily believe that "everything happens for a reason," in fact, sometimes the atoms in this universe randomly crash together in ways that are pretty inconvenient. However, as this year began, I've been thinking a lot about the role that your choices play in the direction your life takes. So it's at this moment, sitting on our lumpy futon in my filthy bathrobe, with a massive green cast that goes from my toes to my crotch, drinking whiskey out of a jar and watching perhaps my 400th episode of Parks & Rec today, I totally forgot the fucking point I meant to make because it's been so long since I constructed a sentence that didn't end with me hitting "send" on an email client.

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter. Please let me know if you need anything further, Kind Regards, Your Esteemed Colleague Who Gets Nothing but Rapturous Joy Sending You Five Emails per Week About the Same Goddamn Item and Could Probably Speed Things up by Picking up the Phone but Refuses to Based Partially on an Irrational Fear of the Telephone but Mostly on the Principle Goddammit,

Amy

I may have made some of that correspondence up.

Oh, right, so anyway, I decided that if the Universe was going to fuck my shit up by breaking my leg, I might as well try to produce something during this time and write some stuff, however inane and rambling. It's my Frida Kahlo moment, so to speak, minus, y'know, the talent and the rampant bisexual extramarital affairs.

So. If you've managed to read this far, welcome back to my blog. Please ignore the time stamps, for time is but a construct that just exists to make us feel bad about not progressing at the same pace as our peers. As John Fogerty once sang, "Oh don't go 'round tonight/It's bound to take your life/There's a bad moon on the rise." Uh. Sorry, my husband just put on a Creedence record and I'm kind of drunk over here. You know what I'm trying to say. Right?

I am a writer. I am definitely a writer.

Hello friends. I'm so glad you made it despite me giving you very little reason to to so. Go ahead and help yourself to a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, some cookies that I bought at 7-11 on my way over here. Have a seat in one of these folding chairs I've haphazardly scattered around the room. Stretch a little bit. We're in for a long post.

I realized recently that the one thing - the only thing - I have ever felt 100% sure of in regards to my own abilities, is writing. From a very young age I was writing "books" about my adventures, my cat, and a delightful array of fictional creatures like daffodils that sang Eric Clapton songs, or little fuzzy monsters that appeared to serve as wingmen (wingmonsters?) to help me win over my 4th grade crush. I read these stories aloud to classmates in order to elicit laughs, and by god, I got them. Later, I would go on to write bad poetry as an outlet for my unrequited love affairs (do you sense a theme here), and then some pretty good poetry that won me a generous writing scholarship my senior year of high school.

In college, I majored in journalism, mostly because I figured hey, here's a good way to have a career as a writer. I know. I know. But I did some good work in those years! I discovered a passion for social justice, and helped some friends start an independent magazine based around identity and racial justice. I wrote op-eds. I got a few stories published in the student newspaper. It wasn't much, but I was creating, and felt at home in my own words.

And then...I graduated, and almost instantly fell into a crippling depression that would last years. I lost the structure of daily classes and thesis deadlines. I lost a reliable social network. I self-medicated with alcohol and meaningless relationships. I tried and failed to start a career that I loved, over and over and over again. Once it seemed I was starting to claw my way out of quarter-life ennui, my beloved younger brother died unexpectedly and my world entirely fell apart. So my mid-20's were...tumultuous to say the very least, and an utter flaming bag of shit to say what I really feel. It took a very long time to sort a lot of things out. I didn't write anything for almost an entire decade, save for filling journal after journal with self-reflection, self-deprecation, self-doubt.

And then, in 2015, I decided to try my first NaNoWriMo, wherein I made a poor fictional young woman go through all of the same things I had just gone through. It was too much. I abandoned the draft for almost three years.

Until last year. I was imprisoned in a cast with two broken leg bones, once again hopelessly depressed and desperate to create some meaning from a seemingly meaningless accident. So I returned to my novel (see my previous post, Muscle Memory) and I finally finished it. Not too long afterwards, I was fortunate enough to have my manuscript accepted into a graduate-level editing course at Emerson College, whereupon two extremely dedicated student editors proceeded to tear it to shreds.

Now, I had a mountain of incredibly thoughtful and poignant feedback that was delivered to me completely for free, and naturally I did what any aspiring novelist would do, I saved it to my Google Drive and completely ignored it for 6 months straight.

The creative process, am I right? You work your fingers to bloody stumps on a piece of art, and then just abandon it on the side of the road as if it were a bedbug-ridden sofa. I just don't want to look at it anymore, you tell yourself. I'll get back to it when I'm ready, you lie. Like a literal lightning bolt will come from the sky and strike you when it's "The Right Time."

Listen, I believe that there are things in this universe that can't be explained, and that sometimes the universe does provide some signs and guidance along the road that, if you're paying attention, can at times seem extremely obvious. However, when it comes to the creative process, that shit is 100% on you, buddy. The Ancient and Wizened Deity of Prose does not descend from a shimmering cloud to give you a kiss on the cheek and say "Now, my child, now is the time to Make Your Art." No, you fucking put down your third new game of Skyrim this year, and you get back to your fucking novel.


ANYWAY, all this to say that I am getting back to my poor, bedbug-ridden novel, left on the side of the road this past December.

And in the meantime! I need to keep those writing muscles toned. So I will be returning to this blog that I also abandoned last year to document the noveling process, random shit that comes into my mind that I think is utterly hilarious, perhaps to workshop a thing or two.

People still blog, right? People still read blogs, right??

Re-entry: A Balancing Act

It's been almost 2 months since the cast came off.

2 months of feeling the air on the skin of my leg again. 2 months of wearing a pair of shoes on my feet instead of just one lonely shoe. 2 months of standing up in the shower, walking to the grocery store...you know, your basic human stuff.

Also, 2 months of realizing how much damage has taken place; of appreciating the subtle balance that takes place in the bones, the muscles, the joints, the tendons when the body is functioning properly... and the utter chaos that takes place when it is not.

I am in constant pain from the moment I wake up until just before I fall asleep. It's a roll of the dice every day as to what is going to hurt, but hurting is practically guaranteed. On a good day, I can do a little bit of stretching and be good to go. On a bad day, like yesterday, the pain is radiating from my bones, my joints, and my organs, and getting out of bed is not an option.

I know I've come so far in the past seven (SEVEN) months, and what I'm feeling is normal for how long I was off my feet. I also want to fling myself on the ground and have a screaming tantrum because I just want my body back to the way it was before the accident.

Finding a good locus between the good and the bad is evading me.

The above statement also applies to how I feel about current events in the United States.

There's not much else I can say about what's going on in this country that hasn't already been said. But, much like my broken body, this broken political system makes me feel sad, furious, and helpless. How can you possibly feel hope in the face of extreme despair? How can you see both simultaneously?

I'm not a religious person by any means, but the spiritual teachings of the Tao Te Ching have always appealed to me, specifically the passages about balance. The idea that light only exists because dark does as well. And so, in difficult times, the darkest challenges also present the opportunities to shine brightly.

I am trying to focus on the shining light manifesting in the generous and brave acts of people donating, and volunteering, and speaking out against the deeply fucked up shit that is happening in the US right now.

There is shining light in my body too, I know.

This is much harder to find.

I hope I find it soon.

Muscle memory.

Learning how to walk again after a serious injury is an experience. I got switched to a walking cast about three weeks ago - not one of those sturdy-looking air casts, mind you, but a cement cast, similar to the fiberglass, with a dorky-looking sandal/shoe that you strap to your foot, that looks like something you definitely should not be putting any weight on.

I began by using both of my crutches for support, essentially mimicking the action of walking. "Yes, I remember this, heel-toe, heel-toe, wonderful, just grand." The first day, my knee joint felt like it might explode, understandably, since I hadn't used it for eight weeks. Then, gradually, I was able to hobble around the apartment successfully enough, so I began just using one crutch, on the left side.

Hurrah, now I was able to actually carry a glass of juice or a plate of food from the kitchen to the other room, rather than putting my comestibles in a container with a lid and placing it in a tote bag around my neck, not unlike a Saint Bernard.

I won't lie, it hurt at first, both at the break site and I don't know, my knee, my ankle, my foot, my back... (I know you're singing that Khia song in your head right now, don't lie to me) There were days where I overdid it the day before, and I would lie on the couch all day feeling exhausted and depressed, cursing the slow march of progress.

Around the same time, I decided that I really wanted something to show for this sedentary period, a revisiting of my creative pursuits that I could wave around as proof that this time actually had meaning, as opposed to just some random accident that completely fucked up everything. I had started writing a novel for NaNoWriMo back in 2015, of which I completed maybe a little more than half, maybe a little less than three-quarters. Over the years, I've gone back and added some more here and there, but never really committed to finishing the damn thing.

What a great goal, and how bad-ass does that sound: "By the time this cast is off my leg, I will have finished the first draft of my novel."

So I opened up the document (last save, July 2016), said "Hello, this is your creator speaking" to all of my forgotten characters, and got right down to typing.

Almost immediately, I got ideas that would fill plot holes that had been evading me for literal years. I rewrote some dialogue, bringing characters into the foreground that had been pretty one-dimensional before. "Yes, I remember this, show, don't tell, wonderful, just grand."

Not unlike re-learning to walk, I'm re-learning how to tell the story inside me. And on all counts, it feels pretty dang great.

On depression.

Hello, I am back.

I haven't written anything in a month, because honestly, I've been extremely depressed.  The kind of depressed where all I want to do is distract myself with internet memes and hours upon hours of video games, because doing anything else will make me have to look my feelings in the eyes and acknowledge that they are, in fact, real. The kind of depressed where I am actively willing for time to pass because the present moment is nothing but stasis, a holding pattern. The kind of depressed where I stay up until two in the morning because I don't see the point of going to sleep when there's nothing to wake up for.

This has been really fucking hard, y'all.

There was a period of time earlier this month where I had to reschedule my follow-up appointment at the hospital two weeks in a row because of seemingly endless Nor'easters (thanks, Big Oil!) that just so happened to hit the day of my appointment. Prior to that, this appointment had been the beacon of light in my broken-leg-fog; it symbolized progress, and above all, hope. It meant a shorter cast, which meant the possibility of walking, which meant a return to something resembling a functioning human existence.

To have that hope postponed, not once, but twice, well. The first time, I did what any normal person would do, I immediately got very, very drunk. Then I cried for about an hour. The second time, I felt flat, completely numb. I had moments where I legitimately felt that I would be in this cast for the rest of my life. My husband began to seriously worry about me.

When the possibility of a third storm with terrible timing loomed, I thought to myself, If I have to wait another week, I'm not sure if I can do this anymore. I consider myself to be a pretty strong lady, but I was on the verge of giving up completely.

My husband and I watched a documentary about Stephen Hawking the other night, in which he talked about the progression of his ALS, and losing functionality of his body little by little, over time. I looked down at my fiberglass-encased limb and thought, I can't even deal with one broken leg. Then I remembered that I have a mental illness, and some days even getting out of bed feels like the most heroic of achievements.

The third storm never ended up coming. I made it to the hospital this past Tuesday. The short cast is on, and I was given a cast shoe, meaning I am now learning how to walk again. Hope glimmers once again on the distant horizon.

38 days later.

As I sit down to write this, it's been 38 days since the accident that left me with two broken leg bones and massively altered the direction of my life.

In the past month or so, I should have been:

• Training for my second half-marathon, getting in excellent shape and loving being in my own body (probably)
• Delivering three programs for work, further proving to my boss that I'm not actually an incompetent lump of flesh but instead a valuable asset to the team (and also quite deserving of a raise tyvm)
• Celebrating five years of being with my husband by going out to the bar where we had our first date (and wearing the new dress I bought for the occasion...okay, for New Year's Eve but it arrived on January 3)

Instead, I have been:

• Lying on a yoga mat in my office, willing my crumbling flesh prison to move the way I want it to
• Logging just shy of 60 hours of working on my farm in Stardew Valley
• Spilling a glass of wine on a puzzle that my husband and I were so close to finishing, having to order another one and start from the beginning

It's been good days and bad days, depending on so many individual factors that I'm not sure what kind of day it's going to be until I've hauled myself out of bed and crutched into the kitchen for coffee. 

Did I get enough sleep? 

How badly does my leg hurt?

How badly does the rest of me hurt?

Is the sun out? 

Do I actually get to go outside and be in the sun? 

Is my husband home or is it just me and the gang at Brooklyn's 99th Precinct? 

Do we have snacks or have I eaten them all? 

How depressed am I on a scale of "Sure, ten hours straight of Top Chef reruns sounds like a great way to spend the day" to "I wonder if they could just put me in a coma for the next three months and I could just sleep through this nightmare"?

Generally speaking, this injury has given me the time to reconnect with some of my creative side, including crafting and barfing my feelings into this blog for y'all to read and then feel sorry for me. I try and remember that when I'm having a really bad day.

However, it is also making me realize how much I took life before the injury for granted. Just the ability to decide "I want to go to this place" and not have to consider, "Can we get there in the car? How many stairs will I need to navigate? Is it snowy or icy outside?" I get that this is my reality, and in that reality this is one of the worst things to ever happen to me and it is hell and I'm sometimes afraid I won't be able to walk normally ever again. But also, that there are people who live with disabilities, and this is their every day life. And even on my worst days, I know that to be the truth, and have an entire ocean of empathy for y'all. As the kids say, you are the real MVPs. 

So today has been a pretty good day, and next week I get to go back to the doctor and there is the possibility that I'll get put into a shorter cast where...wait for it...I'll be able to bend my knee again. Stay tuned!

The Green Bastard.

[Part Four.]

And so the morning passes on Ellison 6. Someone comes to bring me menus for the day, and I order breakfast, lunch, and dinner, while hoping I won't still be here come dinnertime. I talk to my mom on the phone, and text back and forth with my husband, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. I take Instagram photos of my splinted leg for sympathy. When breakfast arrives, I eat my yogurt and English muffin happily, and drink my coffee like it's the last cup on earth.

At some point in the early afternoon, a gentleman comes in with the gear for my cast. He introduces himself as Craig, and he the next in line to do terrible things to my leg, but he at least entertains me while he does so. As he attempts to hold my foot at a 90 degree angle and wrap it in fiberglass, he tells me about the time he went for a pedicure and it's one of the best things he ever did for himself. He also tells the story of when he was out with his two sons and someone referred to him as their grandfather, and they called him "grandpa" all day.

As Craig manipulates my mangled limb, he soothes me by saying that I'm very strong and most men would be screaming in pain at this point. I very much feel like screaming, but his comment makes me chuckle and distracts me, so I allow the gender essentialism. I also am almost certain that he's right.

It's over soon enough, and as he is leaving, Craig asks me what my favorite color is, and I tell him, green. He agrees.

"Take care now, Amy. You're the best," Craig gives me a fist bump on his way out.

"No, you are," I reply. I mean it. I've been tended to very well during my stay in the hospital thus far, but this is the first time I really feel cared for.

I now have this monstrosity in place of a leg:

After The Castening, the rest of the afternoon passes about as quickly as the last few hours of work before a vacation. I eat lunch. I watch YouTube videos on my phone. A physical therapist comes to teach me how to use crutches. She walks behind me as I hobble down the hallway, making sure my hospital gown doesn't fly open and treat the entire 6th floor to a full moon. I get to sit in a recliner. I go for another set of x-rays and realize I'm probably the only Ortho patient in the entire hospital who is under 65. I sit for a full 30 minutes in a hallway waiting for someone to take me back to my room and I have forgotten my phone, so instead I swap complaints with an elderly patient with a bad back.

Finally, finally, Colleen comes to my room and tells me that everything is looking good and that I'll be able to go home soon. It's maybe 3 PM at this point, and I anticipate leaving within the hour. To celebrate, I try and fail to take a nap. I'm woken up a couple times, once by another nurse I haven't seen yet who is just checking to see if I'm doing okay, and once by my buddy Craig, who is back with the green fiberglass wrap for my cast. He wraps me up and pounds it out again, and I dub my new leg accessory, "The Green Bastard (from Parts Unknown)":

Colleen comes in shortly after Craig leaves, with a folder containing my discharge paperwork. Then, as I'm waiting for someone to come with a wheelchair to bring me downstairs, I make the first attempt to struggle into my clothing. I drop my underwear on the floor and kind of stare at them for a minute, and Colleen leaves and returns, bringing me the gift of a grabbing hook thingy, which makes the Underpantsing go much more smoothly. Once clothed, I crash around the room trying to pack all of my things into the overnight bag I never really ended up needing. As I'm doing so, I notice that my husband has stuck a field guide of Massachusetts birds in my bag, presumably to cheer me up, which at the moment makes me sad because I just want to go home to him and I don't know why it's taking so long.

Maybe 20 minutes go by and I receive a phone call from my equally frustrated husband, saying that he has been waiting out front and the hospital concierge or whatever is telling him to leave. I suggest that maybe he loop around and come back, but I have no idea what the situation is, or when someone will be there to get me.

10 minutes, another phone call; he moved to another area within the drop-off and the concierge found him again and he needs to leave immediately. It's now 5 PM, two hours after I was told I can go home. Not meaning to, I snap into the phone, "I have no idea when they're coming to get me. I've been waiting for thirty minutes now. I have been sitting around and waiting basically this entire day."

Of course, at this exact moment, a young man walks in with my ride. He apologizes profusely, they are understaffed today, so then I start apologizing even more profusely, and I'm just about ready to jump out the window if it means I get to leave faster. We head towards the elevator, downstairs, then out into the drop-off area, where my very frazzled-looking husband is waiting behind the wheel of the car.

Immediately, the concierges pounce on me and at first I'm afraid they're going to lecture me, but now they're helping me out of the chair and loading me into the backseat of the car like boxes from IKEA, which is fair, as I pretty much feel like a disassembled POӒNG at this point. I apologize for being a crank monster, and we head home to Thai takeout and the beginning of this journey into the unknown...Parts Unknown.

Trying to sleep in a hospital.

[Part Three.]

I'm alone in the ER holding cell again. I have a very badly broken shin bone that is likely going to need to be reconstructed, and I briefly consider the advantages of having my entire skeleton removed and replaced with a metal one. I make a mental note to make a Wolverine joke when I'm reunited with my husband again, whenever that may be.

For now, I have no idea how long I'm going to be in this Orthopedic Surgery Queue. Or when I'm going to be "moved upstairs," which is how it is phrased by the nurses and doctors and honestly strikes me as a little ominous. "We're just waiting for a bed and then you'll be Moved Upstairs," where Upstairs is the next boss level in a video game, or some sort of torture chamber that is inexplicably located on an upper level. Maybe the murderers like the natural light?

I close my eyes, try and at least rest my brain for a few moments. Naturally, the moment I nod off, another attendant barges into the room to transport me to the Terrace Murder Room or whatever. I'm taken up to the 6th floor Orthopedics unit, and upon my arrival I'm greeted by maybe five people who are setting up the room. One of these people is to be my nurse, a small and extremely energetic Japanese woman named Junko.

Once I've been hoisted into bed, I'm left with Junko, who in addition to the Questions, has a whole medical history she needs to take. It's getting close to 3:00 in the morning, but Junko is being refreshingly transparent and tells me she is sorry to have to keep me awake for longer, as she is required to ask all of these questions once a patient first arrives to stay. She gives me a very stern talking-to when she sees the water bottle that has been brought up with my things, as I'm scheduled for surgery in the morning and should not have anything to eat or drink. I like her.

When my intake is complete, Junko sets me up with some basic toiletries, and, blessedly, a small paper cup of pain meds. She attaches a cuff to my good leg, which is to prevent blood clots, and I plan to remove it immediately once Junko leaves, because there is no way I'm going to sleep with that thing squeezing me every 30 seconds.

Once I'm alone, I try and relax. I'm an extremely light sleeper under normal circumstances, but right now I am utterly exhausted, physically and mentally. I remove the blood pressure cuff thing from my leg, and jam a pair of earplugs into my ears. But I'm so uncomfortable. In the ER, the Ortho folks put a massive and unwieldy splint on my broken leg, and it feels like it weighs a million pounds. I try and adjust the bad leg, moving it slightly against the pile of pillows elevating it. I adjust the bed, head and feet. Now my back hurts. I fuck with everything again, and at some point realize it's hopeless, and jam the call button for help.

When Junko returns, she seems to know what the problem is, as she has brought a vial of morphine, which she attaches to my IV feed. She stays a few moments to make sure I'm okay, and when she leaves, I am finally able to relax and nod into a light sleep.

Of course, what feels like maybe two minutes later, Junko is back, has flipped all of the lights on and is puttering around, getting ready to extract approximately seven pints of blood from my already damaged body. All I can think about is breakfast. I haven't eaten anything in maybe 15 hours. Junko asks if a doctor has been by yet, and when I reply in the negative, she assures me someone should be by soon to let me know about the surgery.

Junko drains all of my blood, then informs me they have a urine (read: pregnancy) test when I'm ready to pee. I tell her I'm good to go now, so she sets the bedpan underneath me and then leaves to go drop the vials off at the lab. When I'm finished, I sit there and wait. To amuse myself, I begin quietly singing "sitting in a bucket of pee" to the tune of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay," and chuckling, almost certainly sounding like an insane person. After a few moments, I realize I don't know when she is actually coming back, and that I need to do something about my situation. Slowly, carefully, I lift my bottom and begin inching the very full bedpan out from underneath me.

When Junko returns, she sees the bedpan lying next to me, and actually exclaims, "Wow! Good job!" Whether it's because I filled the bedpan, or managed to wrangle it out from under myself, I'm not sure, but I will take the praise where I can get it. She leaves again, I pull out a book and settle in to wait.

In maybe a half hour, a man who I assume is the doctor comes in with an entourage of med students. They pour in and form a semi-circle around my bed, and I brace myself for an update. The doctor looks at a clipboard, then proceeds to tell me in a British accent that the break is not in fact as bad as they had told me last night, and that surgery won't be necessary, but rather, I will be getting a cast on instead. He orders the troupe of students to prepare for a cast, and then he's gone, all within the span of maybe five minutes. I suppose at Oxford University of Medicine or whatever, they don't teach you about bedside manner, but honestly I'm thrilled that I'm not going to be cut open.

I am also now filled with a sense of creeping dread...don't casts have to stay on a long time? I don't have much time to dwell, though, because there has been a shift change, and my new nurse breezes in and begins the Taking of the Vitals. She is blonde and very Boston, and I think her name is Colleen? She asks if I've been given a breakfast menu yet, and I told her no, I only just learned that I'm not having surgery and therefore am allowed to eat. Colleen must hear the hunger in my voice, because she asks if I want some crackers and peanut butter to hold me over, and I do, I really, really do.

Never leave the house in something you would mind being cut off you.

[Part Two.]

I'm at the ER, and it's now about 8:30 PM. The EMT and the nurse at registration compare notes while my husband stands next to the gurney, gripping my hand and making soothing noises. I'm slightly dazed from the pain meds. The nurse turns to me and asks the Questions, along with some additional inquiries.

"Do you smoke?" (no, somehow I have never been a smoker)

"Do you drink every day?" (of course not, I lie)

"Do you do any other drugs?" (nope, I lie again, because the one time I made the mistake of telling a doctor I smoked weed from time to time they did all these other bullshit drug screens on me like it was the 80s and people actually believed it was a gateway drug)

We are moved into the hallway to await a room. I text my boss and co-worker and let them know I will not be able to help with tomorrow's event because my leg is likely broken. I know they are screwed, and I'm maybe a little gleeful about it, which is fucked up, because my leg is likely broken.

After a short wait, I'm wheeled into a room and left there. For those of you lucky enough to never have been to the ER for any reason, those rooms are fucking bleak. Inconsistent lighting, a smattering of uncomfortable chairs, sharps containers on the walls, locked cabinets of medical supplies, and for the amount of time you spend waiting, an insulting lack of TV or magazines of any kind.

**Disclaimer: Despite the hospital smack-talk that follows this disclaimer, understand that I have nothing but utter reverence and complete respect for hospital employees. Y'all work so fucking hard and I am grateful for you. You are not responsible for the shortcomings of bureaucracy, so please make earmuffs (eyemuffs?) if you need to as you're reading because I'd rather break my other leg than disrespect your profession in any way.**

A nurse comes in to take my vitals. She is very sweet, and I cannot remember her name as soon as she tells it to me. I am asked if I'm in pain, which I feel like the answer to should probably be "duh", but instead I just nod gravely. The nurse leaves and comes back with a vial of something that is inserted into my IV. She tells me that the doctor will be in shortly. I know that in hospital talk, "shortly" translates to "between five and fifty-five minutes," and I am becoming more and more aware that I'm still in my gym clothes, still soaked in sweat that has now become very cold. I also haven't eaten dinner yet. It's close to 9:30 PM at this point.

Within the hour, a young woman comes into the room and asks me the Questions. She removes the splint from the fire department and is examining my lower leg, poking and prodding and asking if it hurts. It does. A man struts into the room, shakes my hand in a manner that I find distastefully enthusiastic considering my current situation and asks me the Questions again. I catch a glimpse of his badge and identify him as the attending physician, and he seems downright jolly as he quizzes the woman, who I assume is a student, on which area the X-rays should be taken. I'm told again that someone will arrive soon to take me for the X-rays. Husband puts on a podcast to help pass the time, while I play Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp on my phone and try very hard not to despair.

An attendant arrives soon to take me for the X-rays. He wheels me to somewhere else in the hospital, and then someone else wheels me into the imaging room. It is cold and dimly lit. The X-ray tech is nice enough, but he is about to do horrible things to me. In order to get a good image of the bone, my leg and foot need to be manipulated into the proper position. Manipulating my leg and foot is what causes both of those things to hurt very much. The tech is now trying to bend my foot toward me and I very nearly throw up in his kind face. He is instructing me to take deep breaths. Then he starts rotating my lower leg and I am again very close to passing out, involuntarily emitting these horrifying grunting noises in pain every time he touches me. When it's over, I practically cry with relief, and he gets me a blanket out of one of those warmer things, and I'm wheeled back to the ER.

We wait some more, during which time my mother calls me in a panic, because I'm a very considerate child and checked into the hospital on Facebook before calling either of my parents to tell them what happened. After I'm off the phone with my mom, another man and woman come in to the room, and I assume they are the Orthopedic folks. The new doctor asks the Questions as he takes a look at my leg, and suddenly notices the splint, which is still lying underneath my mangled leg.

"What is this?" he asks, barely concealing his disgust.

I take a close look at the splint for the first time and see that it is essentially a tri-folded piece of cardboard with discolored egg crate fabric glued inside it. I chuckle and say, "It's from the fire department."

The doctor picks it up, I swear, by his thumb and forefinger, saying "Well, let's get rid of this immediately."

He then proceeds to inform me that I do in fact have a bone fracture in the tibia (one of the long bones in the lower leg) and that they're going to have to do a CT scan in order to get a better look at the break and determine what the treatment will be.  I'm informed that there is actually a queue for Orthopedics procedures, full of other people who slipped on the ice tonight, and that it may be a longer wait. It's now nearly midnight.

There is now no way I'm going home tonight. I ask my husband to return home and pack a bag for me, and order a Lyft for him. It feels especially lonely once he's gone, and I attempt in vain to rest my eyes for just a moment until it's time for the CT scan. Then I realize that I really, really need to pee.

I page the nurse using the giant TV remote, and inform her that I gotta go. She leaves to get the necessaries, and when she returns with another nurse I realize that my condition is such that I require a team in order to take a tinkle. The two nurses consider me a moment, wonder aloud what's the best way to do the thing.

In the ambulance, I had a sock and an ankle compression sleeve cut off me. Currently, I'm also wearing a knee compression sleeve and my absolute favorite pair of running tights, which my husband calls the "Dippin' Dots pants." I tell them they might as well just cut the whole deal off.
It's going to be a while until I can work out again anyway.

The Pee Team sets the bedpan underneath me and draws the curtain so I can do the business. When I'm finished, I experience the very new sensation of sitting in a bowl of my own urine. Any dignity I may have retained up to this point is basically gone, and I resign myself to my fate.

The night continues. I get the CT scan. My husband returns to the ER just as the Orthopedic doctor does, who proceeds to and tell me that I have a spiral fracture of my tibia that goes down into the ankle joint, and I'm almost certainly going to need surgery, but it may not even happen until the weekend, because there are fourteen people ahead of me, also with broken appendages, who also need surgery. They are finding a room for me upstairs. It's 1:30 in the morning.

An accident.

[Part One.]

It's 6 PM on a Thursday in January. I'm still in the office, an extremely rare event. It had been a long day - I moved all of my stuff into a new office that I would be sharing with a member of my team, the reason for the move primarily being so my boss could come in every 5 minutes and annoy us both simultaneously (just a guess). Co-worker and I had also been working non-stop all day to prepare for an event that was kicking off the following Monday, and I'm now both mentally and physically exhausted. I'm sitting in my chair, feet up on my desk, waiting for my phone to charge and plowing a Clif bar into my hungry mouth.

Should I go to the gym? I think. I'm so tired. I just wanna go home and sit.

You're training for a half-marathon, some other brain cells pipe up. You need to be running like, every day, dummy. Go.

But like...I can go tomorrow after we do the event set up, I try to convince myself.

...

Okay, yeah. You're right. That's not fucking happening. FINE. Let's get this over with. 

I get to the gym, I hop on the treadmill, I flip the tv to Jersey Shore (I like to hatewatch while I work out), and I pound out a slow but satisfying 2.5 miles.

Back in the locker room, I hop on the scale, just for shits and gigs, and realize, I've lost seven pounds since the beginning of the month. Between not drinking (sup Drynuary) and forcing myself to exercise almost every day...it was paying off. And I was feeling good in my own skin for the first time in a while.

As I'm packing up to go, I check the transit app on my phone and realize I have just enough time to catch the bus that drops me off basically at the end of my street. So I don't change into my "outside clothes," but rather throw my jacket on over my running gear and head out.

The ground had gotten icy as fuck over the course of the early evening. The way I walk to the bus is primarily back roads, and although I'm taking it slow, there are a few almost comic moments where I lose my footing but manage to stay upright. I catch the bus more or less right on time, and take a moment to feel smug.

As I'm sitting on the bus, I wonder briefly whether or not I should at least change into my boots, but then get distracted by something extremely brilliant and witty someone's written on the internet.

Once off the bus, it's a short walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'm doing fine, taking cautious steps. Once I reach the end of my street, there's an area where the sidewalk has been extremely icy pretty much since November. After almost slipping, again, I think, I really do not want to fall on this ice. I'm going to walk in the middle of the street where it's less icy.

I step off the curb.

Immediately, I slip.

As my left foot slides out from under me, I hear a loud CRUNCH as my leg twists, and I plummet to the ground, landing on my butt. The pain in my lower leg is instant, and blinding. I know something is very, very wrong and I begin to scream.

I must have yelled very loudly because all of a sudden, a man and a woman are hovering over me, looking very concerned. They're asking me questions and I can't think straight. I know I'm hurt pretty badly, and I definitely cannot move my left leg. I manage to convey two things, that I think I need an ambulance, and that I need to call my husband and let him know what happened.

The man dials 911 and the woman crouches by me as I dig my phone from my coat pocket and dial my spouse, who answers the phone sounding very amused, probably thinking that I locked myself out of the apartment. I stammer out the details of what happened, let him know that I am lying on the ground at the end of the street and he should probably get there soon.

A third person arrives to ask if he can do anything to help. Turns out he lives right across the street, and he quickly leaves and returns with a pillow and a large comforter. He lays the comforter over me as the other two people help me hoist myself up and put the pillow under my back. I am still very much in shock but manage to express my gratitude for these three strangers encircling me on this freezing cold evening while I lie on my back on the very ice that caused my fall.

A few minutes pass as the kind strangers are uncertain how to help me and I think I am making jokes at them because I am very stupid. My husband shows up and assists me in taking my messenger bag off, which is pinned underneath me. Suddenly, the fire department arrives, and two very kind firefighters are asking me questions.

Over the next 24 hours, I am going to be asked the following questions about 1,000 times each:

"What is your name?"

"What happened?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Do you have any pain anywhere else?"

"Do you have any head pain?"

"Can you feel this?" (pinching toes)

"Can you move your toes?" (I wiggle my digits immediately)

This time, the first time, the firefighter also asks, "Does this hurt?" and presses about 1/3 of the way up my shin. In response, I yowl in pain.

"We're going to have to straighten your leg out," the firefighter explains. "Can you sit up?"

I slowly begin raising my upper body, trying to support myself on my elbows. My jacket has stuck to the ice, and I can feel the fabric slowly giving way as I move more and more upright. It hurts to move, and I haven't even shifted my leg yet. I've started to cry.

The two firefighters then gently take my leg and lift it. Bolts of white-hot pain are shooting through my shin, my ankle. I'm sobbing and wailing the entire time, as they start to place the leg in a splint they brought along with them. I've never felt this much pain in my entire life. My vision starts to darken and I pray I'm not going to pass out, and suddenly, it's over.

Meanwhile, an ambulance has showed up, pulled up right next to me (going the wrong way up my street and also blocking egress. Ambulances are badass). The firefighter is exchanging notes with one of the EMTs, who then asks me the Questions. The EMT turns to her colleague and says "Tib/fib," and her colleague agrees. Then she turns to me and says "Time to get you into the ambulance."

The strangers have since left, and I'm pretty sure I thanked them for their kindness. I see my husband looking on with concern as the EMTs position me to get up on the gurney. I also notice some neighbors have left their houses and are standing on the sidewalk, staring. Thanks so much for your help, I think, annoyed. Then I'm being moved and forget about anything but the pain in my lower leg as they slowly lift me up onto the gurney, and we go bump-bump into the ambulance.

My husband is seated up front. They're taking me to Mass General. The first EMT is on my right, making notes. The second EMT, on my left, is blessedly going through cabinets to find me some pain meds. I'm told later by my husband that he could hear me yelping in pain for most of the ambulance ride. Finally, an IV of Dilaudid is administered, and the relief is almost instant. I watch out the back window through eyes blurred with tears as we race across the city to the hospital.

Limping from the kitchen on crutches with a mason jar full of whiskey in the pocket of my bathrobe.

This is the first time I've ever broken a bone. I've been fortunate to have gone most of my life thus far without major injury, the exceptions being 2013, when I sprained my left ankle, and 2014, when I sprained my right. Ask me why I run.

Anybutts, lately it seems like the Universe has been hinting around that I need to get back to writing. From my dream wedding in September when all the intuitive, spiritual people in my life met each other for the first time and, annoyingly, all agreed that I needed to write again and still continue to text me about it, to a very persistent Tarot card that keeps showing up, to, well...this.

I don’t know, I don’t necessarily believe that “everything happens for a reason,” in fact, sometimes the atoms in this universe randomly crash together in ways that are pretty inconvenient. However, as this year began, I’ve been thinking a lot about the role that your choices play in the direction your life takes. So it’s at this moment, sitting on our lumpy futon in my filthy bathrobe, with a massive green cast that goes from my toes to my crotch, drinking whiskey out of a jar and watching perhaps my 400th episode of Parks & Rec today, I totally forgot the fucking point I meant to make because it’s been so long since I constructed a sentence that didn’t end with me hitting “send” on an email client.

Thank you in advance for your attention to this matter. Please let me know if you need anything further, Kind Regards, Your Esteemed Colleague Who Gets Nothing but Rapturous Joy Sending You Five Emails per Week About the Same Goddamn Item and Could Probably Speed Things up by Picking up the Phone but Refuses to Based Partially on an Irrational Fear of the Telephone but Mostly on the Principle Goddammit,

Amy

I may have made some of that correspondence up.

Oh, right, so anyway, I decided that if the Universe was going to fuck my shit up by breaking my leg, I might as well try to produce something during this time and write some stuff, however inane and rambling. It’s my Frida Kahlo moment, so to speak, minus, y’know, the talent and the rampant bisexual extramarital affairs.

So. If you’ve managed to read this far, welcome to my new blog! I know I don't have any real furniture yet, and there aren't any good snacks in the fridge, but if you stick around, I hope you'll at least be mildly entertained by my antics.