My wife and I live in the high Rocky Mountains, at about nine thousand feet up. That means that winter can be severe with five or six feet of snow at a dump. It makes normal living harder. So, to escape the snow and ice we go two hundred miles south/east to Denver. There we have 630 square feet in a two-room town house to avoid all that bad weather underfoot.
Last week it had been cold in Denver (not always the case) leaving patches of snow and ice. When snow began to fall I thought I’d beat the worst of it by going on my regular walk about. Three quarters of my way I slipped on ice, fell, and—I could barely walk.
I had my cell-phone with me, called home, and my wife gathered me up.
Doctor/emergency room followed where I learned I had given myself a hair-line hip fracture.
Good news—no surgery. No pain unless I put pressure on my left leg. Which I don’t.
Not such good news, I was shipped off to a rehab hospital. The hip will heal itself, but I have to learn how to get about. I shall become the hop-scotch king of the world. Or maybe move into the world of hip-hop.
And what—in my case—does rehab mean? It’s learning to connect my mind with muscles that I don’t normally use. That way, for instance, I can get out of bed. Or get into it. In new ways. It’s actually a very curious process, probably something like how an infant learns to be fully human.
But aside from physical therapy sessions I’m confined to a hospital bed. What does a writer do when confined to bed? This one puts his lap-top on his lap and writes. There are a couple of projects underway, and I work on them. I do wonder how it influences the text. No idea.
I also read a lot.
Call family and friends.
Try to be cheerful, upbeat, not complaining. Sort of.
But yesterday I realized that at some point my watch had stopped running. Perfect metaphor.
I’m rewinding it.