Yesterday, I lost a skein of yellow yarn with the needles in it, and left my phone in a random diner bathroom on 33rd street and 10th avenue. (If you find it, please bring it back.)
A week ago, my ankle got hit by a car. I was walking to meet E, the first long, giddy walk I’ve had in a long time, and I stopped at a corner somewhere between Bergen and Hoyt, and a car hit me on the ankle. I pulled my foot back before the car could actually run it over, and then somehow I kept walking up to where I was meeting E. I sat in a Starbucks in a while in a fog of disbelief and pain and confusion, until I finally realized I should go to the hospital.
Since this all happened, I’ve spent a lot of time laying on the couch, falling asleep at 9.30 pm, looking for cabs, not drinking coffee (because I can’t carry it), trying to let myself off the hook when it comes to asking for help, watching terrible tv on the computer, feeling exceedingly impatient and nervous and grumpy and existential.
I have a sordid history with my ankles. Each of them has been sprained at least once, and now the right one is actually fractured. I have a cast covered with signatures and messages and pictures, which my coworker said is “ very junior high.”
I am totally aware of how much worse it could have been. I could have had my entire foot run over. I could be dead. I have health insurance now, for the first time in over a year, so this is nothing if not well timed. I know all this. Still, I’ve been managing to wallow more than I’d like. Everything is harder and takes longer, even writing, strangely enough, and New York suddenly feels very aggressive and inhospitable.
I’m at J’s now, until Monday night, with the cat (who is fascinated by my crutches). My hope is to recalibrate and maybe to write something about all the stories people have been telling me about their broken bones. Also, be nicer to myself, and not lose track of the ball. My favorite on Woody Guthrie’s 1943 list of New Year’s resolutions is “Wake up and fight.” Indeed.