I was proud to take my first round trip all by myself.
I sat alone on the plane, collected all my luggage, Ubered to and from the airport.
In fact, I was feeling so adult I decided to wash my sheets!
So, still in my not-jean-jeans and Twilight t-shirt,
I carried an overflowing basket down to the basement.
On the penultimate flight I skipped a step, so I kind of jumped the last two onto the next platform, and my ankle just… crumbled.
Now, I’ve broken a lot of bones.
I know when I’m broken, and I told the men who the police called that I was broken.
They asked me to rate my pain and I said six,
“I mean, it hurts like hell, but I’m ok.”
They offered me IV fentanyl in my first ambulance ride all by myself.
By the time I was taking my first Uber ride from the hospital to a walk-in orthopedic clinic because the hospital is too expensive all by myself,
I wished I had taken them up on that offer.
But in that first Uber ride from the hospital to a walk-in orthopedic clinic because the hospital is too expensive all by myself and the first Uber ride from the walk-in orthopedic clinic to my dorm where I have to walk back up the flights of stairs that just crippled me all by myself, I had some time for reflection:
I have my Georgia ID, a credit card, my room key, my ice cream punch card, and the bus pass I don’t know how to use.
I do not have my insurance card, nor do I have a good insurance policy.
I have my trusty iPhone 6 and one AirPod.
I do not have a charger or more than 10% battery in either one.
I have three relatively functional limbs. I do not have the fourth.
I have so much to thank my body for, and so many reasons to resent her.
She holds me up until she doesn’t,
She shows me off even when I do not want to be seen,
She knows me, and she knows me too well,
She remembers where and who I’ve been.
I thought about her in my first Uber ride back to the orthopedic clinic for a follow-up appointment where they tell me I need an MRI but I have to wait 10 days or else my insurance won’t cover it, again, all by myself,
I saw a video (on my now fully charged, trusty iPhone 6) of people sewing clothing with black paint on their hands,
So that every time they touched the fabric there would be a mark of proof.
To show the work that goes into what we wear,
And I imagined a model dressed entirely in those hand-marked garments,
A tribute to all her makers.
Then I imagined the hands that made me and the prints they left,
The curls of my father, the pale skin of my mother’s mother’s mother,
The birthmarks and freckles, scrapes that turned to scars,
Painful presents left from botched surgeries,
Healed bones and stretched ligaments, stretch marks
Crawling behind my knees and cupping my hips,
Four holes I made in my ears to hang art from,
A thin green line around my wrist,
The gift of a gifted bracelet.
If my body’s a novel, I’m only an editor.
Well, maybe a publisher too, but she’s authored by my experiences.
And sometimes she records those stories in… unconventional ways.
Ways like three concussions, a double wrist and elbow break,
Endless sprains and growth plate fractures,
No tonsils or adenoids,
Probably some autoimmune disease that we have to wait until it gets really bad to figure out.
But what is a story without conflict?
So, maybe, as I sit in the loudest room I’ve ever been in, almost fully engulfed by a massive medical device, listening to the most static-infused rendition of “Captain Jack” ever pumped through hospital headphones, for the first time and all by myself,
I’m proud that she’s made it so far with me.
And I start to feel a little less all by myself.
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