Last February I broke my arm
A good crisp break,
So sudden and unexpected.
But then who expects their arm to break?
Did I think people just schedule these things?
February 6, 2010. 5:30 pm:
Going to break my arm on the way to Ami's baby shower: check.
So I went to my mother-in-law,
Who was no help, as usual.
Offering plenty of alternatives, natural healing,
A bunch of crock.
So I told my sister,
Who told my mother,
Who told my father,
Who told me to go to the Doctor
And we all went to the Doctor.
The Doctor put a cast on
And told me to go home,
A long drive home,
Dark car, with a screaming child
So hazy now, the memories I repress.
Every day there was hurt and the cast did not heal.
The Doctor had known it wouldn't,
But I had to see the proof before I would believe.
I had to see with my own eyes that a cast was not enough
The break was bad.
An infection had been festering.
The arm must be removed.
Maybe I had known all along, and maybe I didn't.
I'll never say.
And we slowly began the process.
All the while I pretended it wasn't going to happen
I begged the Doctor for alternatives
But I knew those alternatives were crock
And He did His best to heal me,
He told me there would be a new arm, a better arm
It's the 21st century, anything can happen
And at first I believed.
He had a logical explanation, after all
So maybe I never believed.
Maybe it just made sense.
And now as I try to type without my arm,
It doesn't seem very sensible.
Where is my new arm?
Oh a healing period? Oh a waiting period?
Yes I knew about that.
No I don't want to wait anymore.
No I don't want to heal the long, difficult, efficient way.
I just want a better arm.
Don't I deserve a better arm?
Isn't He The Doctor? Cant He do anything?
So I made a mistake,
And here comes the flaw in my analogy
My story has no place for you.
Not yet really.
But I stole your arms anyways.
I began to lean on you.
I used your arms to screw in light bulbs,
To take out the trash, to move the couch, to hold the baby.
I used them for warmth, for healing.
My new arms.
Not deserved. Just stolen.
Maybe one day, but not today.
And when you are here I barley notice my arm is missing.
And tonight you are not,
And the pain returns
The wait seems so much longer
The weight seems so much heavier,
The hurt deepens, blackens.
"Make a mistake with me"
Quoting someone else
You know how that one ends.
Is it raining at your house
Like its raining at mine?
Where are you tonight?
Resting your weary arms.
For you don't know it,
But like Atlas you carry the weight of the world.
The weight of my world at least.
And I just allow you to carry me.
That isn't love my dear.
I'm using you.
Do I care enough to let you go,
For if you love me you shall return,
Do I trust the Doctor to give me the best arm?
Tonight I cry.
I weep so hard the baby becomes confused.
So I put her to bed and weep alone.
Silently heaving in a ball of confusion.
Because tonight, without your arms, I realised
That I'm not being fair to you, that I'm not trusting Him.
This faulty analogy is our lullaby
Without melody, without rhyme
Waiting on this injured woman
To sing a tune of goodbye.