I am doing volunteer work at a livestock sanctuary on a recent Friday morning. I am busy completing my chores, hurrying through them. Today’s assignment is feeding and watering the small animals including bunnies, ducks, chickens, and guinea pigs. It takes less exertion than caring for the larger animals, but it requires a lot of moving around, bending over, and hauling feed and hay. I dump out and clean the plastic wading pools, which the ducks use as miniature ponds.
The sanctuary is brimming with activity: summer camp for kids is in full swing; the ducks are hungry and making a ruckus; and the volunteers are hustling around getting chores done. I am clumping clumsily around in boots, dragging big hoses, and scurrying to complete tasks. I want to finish faster than usual, as the list of things that I need to do at home before we leave on vacation next week is expanding not shrinking. I have mentally blocked out large chunks of time and roughly assessed whether everything can get done before we leave. With luck, it can – just barely.
As I swivel and yank on a large hose, my foot catches on a coil, and I fall. I break my tumble by dropping onto my right wrist, which bears the full brunt of my body weight. The pain is excruciating; I feel light-headed, and my periphery explodes with a vibrant cavalcade of stars. I hop up quickly and make a joke about being clumsy. The teenaged camp leaders are a little stunned and more than a little worried about me. My right hand is utterly unusable. But I muddle through the rest of my responsibilities and then quit early.
I momentarily think about going home, taking Advil and waiting it out, but I know I have broken a bone in my wrist. My wrist and hand are so sore and achy, I cannot even search for the nearest urgent care center on my cell phone because I cannot move the fingers on my right hand. Luckily, son Andy responds rapidly to my texted plea for help finding a walk-in clinic.
I drive to the clinic and sit in the waiting room after telling the receptionist that I am pretty sure that I have a broken wrist. She is sympathetic but tells me to take a seat and wait my turn. The next patient is summoned up front, and I hear her murmur, “I am SO glad I do not have a broken wrist.” I clench my teeth, and feign light-heartedness, and say, “I heard that.”
Finally, I am placed in an examination room, and a nurse takes my vital signs. She assures me that the doctor will be with me soon.
I sit. Pain, exhaustion, worry, and exasperation sweep over me. In six days, we are scheduled to depart for Bend, Oregon, along with friends, and we planned to bike at least three days. I briefly wonder if I can bike with my arm in a cast, and I feel ridiculous for even considering it. I resign myself to sending Don and six friends off on their bikes each morning, while I trudge the perimeter of a golf course parking lot while listening to my latest Audible book, Being Mortal, a depressing, non-fiction exploration of getting old, becoming frail, falling down, and eventually dying.
The physician finally shows up, and he examines my wrist and palpates it. He asks me to move my fingers and rotate my hand with my elbow positioned at my side. By some miracle, he concludes that it is highly unlikely that I have a broken bone because I have decent range of motion and because I do not spew four-letter words at him when he presses on my wrist. He is willing to take x-rays to confirm the diagnosis, but I assure him that I will keep an eye on the swelling and will come back if things get worse. He gives me a professional spiel about resting and elevating my wrist, taking ibuprofen, and making sure that I periodically flex and gently rotate my hand.
I hop in the car and drive home, a soft, breezy sense of gratitude quietly rustling around me. I consider the role that vacation preparation stress played in my accident. I vow to slow down, practice deliberation, and ponder the knowledge that things get done even when approached with a measured pace.
Well, at least when I have time, I will.