Save the Date for my Hugging Party

Recently I fell. I fell on slick tile, wet with coffee. I fell because I was thinking too fast, and moving too fast, and hurrying along my always busy life. In fact, I had been informed of the coffee spill by my daughter, who was getting into her truck bringing her art work to her college final, and going on to her first day at a new job. She told me as I clenched her in an unusual and very tight bear-hug. As I stood in the early Fall light with my arms around this grown woman, who is not only my own child, but my favorite person on the planet, I didn't know, I couldn't know, that this was a very significant hug. It was the last hug. The last real hug for a very long time.

If you know me, you know this means something--I am a hugger. I love to hug. It's part of my DNA. I am an affectionate, touchy-feely person. I like to give hugs and I like to receive them. I am tactile. I touch. I also believe a transfer of love and well being and happiness happens when you hug. I'm a fan. So, when I sped into my house and did a Funniest-Home-Video type long, excruciating fall across first my tiled landing, then over a table, and finally rolling and slamming full velocity to the tile below on my shoulder, you should know I didn't realize then that what I was really doing, besides breaking my humerus in four places, bruising both knee and pelvis, managing to rip all the soft tissue around my arm pit, shoulder, pec, and whatever else is there, was moving myself from a hugger to a non-hugger in the world.

Bummer.

As I fell I had the time to state aloud four times, "Don't get hurt!" Interestingly, this didn't help, but it was a lovely sentiment. It does however help anyone who is interested gauge the length of my fall from inception to "boom."

So boom I went. Being alone I (well, alone except for five dogs, two of them very sympathetic, two rowdy and uninterested, and one dumb) ended up calling for help, and help not immediately forthcoming, I called the paramedics. Happily, the paramedics arrived and proceeded to be extremely lovely to me and extremely calendar-worthy. (My shock-state allowed me to revel in the sheer beauty of the four strapping men before I actually felt how hurt I was.) Miraculously my dogs had quietly exited into my backyard where they all sat like statues without barking. This is a first, and it also proved that The Dogs Know What is Going On.

My Paramedic Team

My husband arrived mid paramedic massage of shoulders and luckily took me to the urgent care. When what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a humerus break, and unreasonable fear. The fear was the urgent care doctor who detailed a horrible round of surgery and pins, and so on. I stayed calm and called the surgeon and went in the next day. I was fairly concerned because my arm, previously extremely useful, was then "flappy" and uncooperative. Well, I did the X-ray and MRI thing, and then I was told while I had a severe fracture, I could manage the first steps of my own cure by simply holding completely and unreasonably still for weeks.

So I did it. I held completely still. My body became extremely aware and self-protective of my appendage. I held it close to my side, I inadvertently tensed all the surrounding muscles as I protected the break, and I held still. This included not being able to lie down, and, basically, not being able to do a heck of a lot of anything. Because my break was my right shoulder and by the Grace of God I am left-handed, I could do a lot of the embarrassing personal tasks we are all loath to include others in--even family members. But, even with all these blessings (break on non-dominant side, no surgery, etc.) the extreme mental and physical discipline of holding still is something hard to fathom unless you have done it yourself.

Happily, if you move too far from still, your body provides you with a gentle reminder: bone searing pain.

So I began my own version of nesting. Because I couldn't sleep on the bed we developed an intricate way of packing me with pillows into a secure sitting-up position on a plush love seat sofa. Complete with a round airline neck pillow and a couple of Vicodin, I could sleep extremely poorly and interruptedly for hour at a time. My horrible cries for assistance to get up or even move position were met with exhausted, but loving, assistance from family members. This kept up for about 50 days. They told me I could type (I couldn't), they told me I could tolerate a bra (right. sure. hysterical.), they told me I could do "anything I wanted but lift my arm."

Taking this literally, I undertook a long trip to my writing workshop six hours away. We had to abandon ship halfway there and get me a hotel and drugs to make it through that night. Eventually I settled into a long and happy love affair with old sitcoms and not having to do Anything in Particular.

At first this was horrible for me. I am an "up and doing" person with something going on at all times. Eventually I began to see the charm and innocence of old sitcoms. (I watched nothing upsetting including talk shows.) I ventured into the Home Shopping Network a few times but because I couldn't type my credit card in the website in the early days of my injury I am still the proud possessor of a retirement savings account.

I can whistle this theme song now.

So, as my family went about their lives, coming and going to school and work, running errands, even leaving the house to take out the trash, I sat and watched Dennis the Menace. I watched Father Knows Best. I went through a series of old Gidget movies. I had no desire for anything current. I didn't want to see anything that could in the least upset me or even make me slightly nervous. I just didn't have the emotional capacity for suspense. In fact, I quit Facebook feeling like it wasn't serving me, I took Twitter off my phone, and I just retreated, feeling like I didn't have any real friends and in all the pain feeling exceptionally sorry for myself.

Hawaii was awesome, Rome, not so much.

In situations like this you get who is there for you really quickly. I began to understand through this reality check that while social media had its place and in fact, I have even renewed a few old friendships there and made some new ones, for the most part, your social media lists, including Facebook are not your friends. The people who are your friends are the people who pick up the phone. They are the people who show up. They are the people who send actual snail mail or text on your (gasp) phone. I got that I have about 10 great friends. I am unbelievably grateful that I have that many. I also have some amazing family. I am a lucky person.

The time I have spent with my shoulder broken has been a series of interesting ups and downs. I have noticed that people won't stop for you in the street normally but donning a sling they get unusually nice. I have noticed that strangers have a tendency to grab your shoulder in exclamation a lot actually, and that even when you are released from sling duty you have to keep it with you to alert crowds. I have learned that without a bra I am a hopeless fashion don't. Period.



This ad just says so much.

 

In some ways not being able to maintain my usual schedule of working out, dressing up and facing the world looking as good as possible was the worst part for me. I have hated buying clothes a size bigger for comfort and I have hated not being able to get my hair right. I have hated my emotional fragility. I have hated the crying.* That is until I decided I had to cry. And once I allowed myself to cry I have just kept it up. I am now officially a person who will cry every time I feel like it--hopefully forever. If you are with me I won't adopt my mother's old "put on your sunglasses" privacy stance. No, I will just cry. It prevents migraines. I will also laugh. Loud and hard. And someday when I am healed I will laugh like Santa and giggle and jiggle and bounce and fly across the room.

And while I fly across the room dancing and laughing and filled with amazing mirth, if you happen to be there I will grab you and we will twirl in a happy dance. We will twirl the way we did in the grass as 8-year-olds. We will laugh until we cry and fall into each other's arms and hug and hug and hug.

And that sounds like a beautiful time. Doesn't it?

Hugging.

Come to my Hugging Party.

So save the date. This is your invitation to my hugging party. I might send paper invitations to real people. There will be a crowd of less than 20 and the hugs will be the best part.

Happy Holidays!


Love--

Beauty

* If you have ever had physical therapy you know that crying is an every day thing--and in fact the thing that PT survivors recount the most when they discuss it.