I’m damaged at present – but it’s my left arm and only temporary. I fell over in the garden whilst trying to move some rocks – by jumping on them. I thought that the two rocks would fall straight forward but instead, they parted company and sent my sprawling onto yet another rock. This was very stupid and I probably don’t deserve the outpouring of sympathy I’ve been given. Though that may be because I’ve had a perverse pride in displaying the grotesquely swollen and multi-coloured thing hanging off my elbow. No one has actually vomited or fainted, but most wince and avert their eyes.
“It looks painful.” is the usual comment.
“It is,” I reply. I’m not even attempting to be stoic. But – as happened when I had a baby in a pram – it gives you an insight into what it would be like to have a disability.
A very, very tiny insight. Once, at an inner city railway station, I saw a young African man with both arms missing from just below the elbow…
Anyway, on the bright side, I now know that I must have good strong bones. Which reminds my of my parents saying, when I was little and cut myself, “Good red blood – that means you’re healthy!” in a cheering tone. I didn’t know then that blood only came in red.
I did get my husband to photograph my damaged arm but really it’s too revolting to post. So here are a couple of marble hands from the beautiful lake-side gardens in Ballarat. And a foot, too, complete with moth.
I’ve been reading:
The House in France by Gully Wells
The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather
The Desert Pilgrim by Mary Swander