The hospital nurse forgot to tell me that my arm was broken. Apparently, I mean. That explains some of the knocking about I've been doing with my hand, useless with my wrist in a swelled and bruised state.
"You're kidding," was all I could say to Dr. La-la-la on the phone when she said that the x-rays revealed a hairline fracture in my right forearm. La-la-la was the doctor's name, I decided, because it was wholly inarticulate; like the voicemail message she left me with the wrong telephone number to call, her recorded name unintelligible - another wonderfully bright foreigner who had some trouble with English but no trouble with the medical boards.
"Oh, sorry. I meant to say 715 not 714," said Dr. La-la-la. She said that I should see a doctor as soon as possible to have my hand immobilized - Oh, and until then no typing or writing. Thinking soon and possible, I snapped the mobile phone shut and looked up at a clear blue Miami sky - 1,000 miles away from Dr. La-la-la.
I looked down at my hand. It stared back, gloating, reveling in the anticipated increase in attention as I realized that it held my fingers hostage. If I could not type or write I was effectively silenced. There was no use flattering it with a self-portrait; I could not draw hands to save my soul. Very well, then, I will write less.
But, before I go into that good night, how is it that we walk about our days so unaware of our palms and wrists, innocuous things that if slightly impaired could deprive us of a whole range of motions, from writing to exercise to bathing to eating to driving to beating someone up?
Upon reflection, there is not that much to write in the modern world.
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