Healing Happens

The first time I saw the “s**t happens” bumper sticker was twenty-some-odd years ago, on the back of a nearly-new, shiny, wrecked Camaro. The law of attraction in action.

I broke my wrist, two weeks after moving home, office and studio. At first it seemed like bad luck. It had been a hard move. I was dog-tired, running on empty. I had no choice but to rest. With long hours of sleep and naps in between, I began to feel a bit blessed, and for the first time in months, mentally refreshed.

The list of things I could not do sometimes felt endless. Tying the sash on my bathrobe took six, seven, eight or more tries. Cutting meat was not possible. Nor fastening my seatbelt (much less a bra.) But the things that were possible—if I could only figure out how—became adventurous and amusing. The left brain would say, “this can’t be done.” The right brain would counter, “How can I pull this off?” The night I opened a bottle of wine I was triumphant. It had taken 20 minutes.

Friends and family rallied. They brought food that could be opened, prepared and eaten with one hand. They helped me dress, wrote checks, and drove when I would feel too untethered without a seatbelt. They schlepped boxes, unpacked, and made my bed (putting on a fitted sheet with one hand could be an Olympic event,) put barrettes in my hair, and hung artwork. It’s hard to be grumpy or bitter when your heart is full of gratitude.

Healing happens. One day, the pinkie finger could push the “P” and “enter” keys. Soon after I could zip and snap the waistband of my trousers. Bending my palm back enough to hold a dollop of shampoo, then massaging it into my scalp, was glorious beyond words. Pulling the gearshift in my car from park to drive made me squirm with delight. Ten days later, I could push from drive to park. To pick up and put a carrot in my mouth? Oh, my. Finally I could not only hold, but use, a fork. And being able to write! To doodle! To journal. To sign my name IN CURSIVE. I was giddy with pride and relief.

Joy can come in a package so small that we overlook it, but rarely have I known joy any greater than being able to wash my hair and sign my name. Rebecca L. Ewing

Carpe diem