As
many of you know, a few months ago, a freak accident left me with both wrists
fractured. I didn’t struggle with writing about the accident because writing is
the way I process things. I struggled with sharing that writing, especially considering
other horrific things happening in the world—this seemed to pale in comparison.
In
one way, I just wanted to move on, but in another, these reflections are my
testimony of God’s work and faithfulness. The thing is, I can’t just move on
and pretend this life-changing event never happened. It is taking months of my
life to reach a level comparable to where I was before this happened, and I am
still in process. It has affected more than just my body.
My
hope is that someone else facing a comparable situation will draw courage and
hope from these words. Maybe it won’t be two fractured wrists, but another
situation that jolts you into a new reality. In any event, here is part one of
the story. I start in the emergency room and leave the details of how the
accident happened for another time. It is my prayer that God uses this story for His
purposes.
The nurse said, “Your hips and spine are fine, but your wrists . . .” He paused.
“I
know,” I responded and no more was said. I knew one of my wrists was broken,
but I had held onto hope that one of them was just sprained, but it was not to
be. A short time later, a young man and woman entered my room and proceeded to
cover both arms with casts that reached from the second joint in my fingers to
above my elbow.
The
doctor said each time she entered, “I am so sorry.”
I
was asked whether I had family at home to take care of me. “Because if you
don’t,” a nurse said, “we’d need to see about you going to a rehab facility.”
Oh,
mercy. What was happening? Thankfully, I had people, which was such a blessing,
but I felt for those in this situation who didn’t.
I
was instructed to see an orthopedic the next day. As we left for home, I took
pain and nausea medicine or rather the medicine was given to me. It was then I
realized that I could not get anything to my mouth by myself. The reality of
the situation was just beginning to settle into my spirit.
I
initially saw a general trauma orthopedic, and more x-rays were made. There was
the hope for a more conservative treatment which would avoid surgery, but the
final decision would be made by a hand
specialist I was scheduled to see a few days later when swelling had subsided a
bit. He would give guidance on what needed to happen next.
In
what would be called in the literary world a foreshadowing, in early May I had
dropped my cell phone face down on the driveway. I cringed as I picked it up,
almost sure of what I would find. Sure enough, the protective screen was pocked
with lines spreading out in every direction like a spider’s web.
We’d been discussing getting new phones, so I didn’t hurry to replace the
screen, and for a couple of weeks, I viewed my phone world through a shattered
overlay of glass.
As
I later sat in the hand specialists’ office with still swollen arms and fingers,
I held onto hope I might escape surgery and get shorter casts, but he instead
spoke about the right hand where bones were fractured and out of alignment. And
then he said, “But the left wrist is
shattered into multiple pieces.”
When the doctor said the word shattered about my hand, it mirrored my spirit, the cracks in
the whole of me spreading just like they did on my phone screen. And it felt as
if the pock marks went straight to my core. In the days since the accident, I
had become a person who could do nothing for themselves. I could not eat,
bathe, or anything else, really. I could pull a cup with a straw to me, but
that’s about it. All the things I love to do—the writing, the painting, and
being a pianist were on hold for who knew how long. I could not even manage a
phone button because my fingers shook so much. I could pray, but even that was
tempered by a haze of mental fog with pain meds which I always try to avoid, but in this instance, it
didn’t seem possible. I had issues with my back which made it difficult to
walk or get in and out of bed, which also required help. Yeah, I felt shattered.
I was not only looking at my phone through a shattered lens, but also my life.
And
yet, lines from an old hymn, “My Hope is Built,” kept circling in my mind “…when all around my soul
gives way, He then is all my help and stay.” It did seem as if my very soul threatened
to give way, but God reminded through these words and so many other ways that He was with me, and would continue to be so. More about that in the future.
In
this very place when we have figuratively or in my case literally lost our grip,
we find what will hold. And I am here to tell you, God will hold, even when we
feel we can’t.
As
the hymn says our hope can only be built on Jesus, not in an outcome that may
or may not happen. Even now, as I begin to regain range of motion, I still have
limitations which I pray in time will resolve. I don’t know about that, but my
hope is in Jesus. I continue to cling to the One who does not change and who is
ever present. It is my prayer that you, too, will find Jesus as your own “help
and stay” if your soul threatens to give way because of a life altering
circumstance, and that in Him you will find everything you need—comfort, the
ability to perseverance, grace, patience, and a very real
sense of His presence.
Until next time, I leave you with these words, friends, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble” (Psalm46:1).