I received a little souvenir from our recent

9 inches of snow: a puffy splint and sling cradling a dislocated elbow. I was wearing sensible shoes. Taking tiny, cautious steps. I even happened to be carrying a pillow! (Alas, in the wrong hand.) 

And it still happened. 

Remember jumping on the trampoline in elementary school P.E.? That was one of my favorite activities—the feeling of flying and mastering simple tricks. 

I did a seat drop—legs straight out, arms straight down—only there was no trampoline, and certainly no immediate bouncing back up—just an unyielding patch of black ice.

“I can’t believe I did that,” I said aloud, after I scraped myself up off the pavement.

My right arm just wasn’t functional. It would only rise a few inches from my side with great effort, and bending it was impossible.

I drove myself home one-handed to assess the situation, reasoning that perhaps my arm was just momentarily stunned and would gradually function anew. Should I give it ‘til morning? Get help now? 

I decided a non-working arm wouldn’t magically resume mobility without medical intervention, so I headed to the E.R. 

Signing numerous forms and consents with my non-dominant left hand yielded several pathetic scrawls.

Three excruciating x-rays later (the most painful one involved holding my arm in an L with my thumb ironically up), the tech declared it dislocated. 

My doctor told me I get the award for best pain tolerance. He seemed genuinely surprised that I wasn’t screaming in agony.

I was put under anesthesia so the doctor could move it back into place.

After I got out of my Propofol-induced fog, the second question I asked, after “Did I say anything stupid?” was, “Will I still be able to type?” because—BEACON deadlines. 

A later appointment with the orthopedist and a CT scan showed a couple fractured bone chips —my first-ever broken bone. Physical therapy is a likelihood. My splint was exchanged for an adjustable brace—less cushy, but more movement. 

And so began a series of wild adventures in figuring out how to do life one-handed. After a week of not driving, I’m back behind the wheel. I can shampoo my hair in the sink. I can load and unload the dishwasher, but I can’t hand-wash dishes—that would get my brace wet. Putting in earrings seems too hard, so I’ll pass for now. Chopping anything is out of the question. 

It’s always humbling how people show up—with a kind word, a Crock-Pot of stew, a “just checking in” text or a ride. That support means everything.

“I’m grateful you don’t have a head injury,” my mom texted. Oof. Yes. I felt gratitude amid the upheaval—it could always be worse.

Readers, be careful out there—or just stay home. Don’t do what I did! February and March will certainly bring more winterscapes that are lovely to gaze at, but hazardous.

Life can change—sometimes gradually, sometimes suddenly—and it’s too easy to take good health for granted. You might be dealing with a chronic condition, like stubborn arthritis that’s slowly hindered your movements, or a new disease diagnosis. It’s a time of regrouping and reassessing: What should change? What can be left behind?

Yet when our bodies don’t cooperate, they aren’t the sum of who we are. 

Like a comforting bowl of beef barley soup, our rich inner lives—our relationships and memories—soothe and sustain us as we heal to the degree possible and, as the Serenity Prayer says, “accept the things we cannot change.” 

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