I woke up feeling "out of sorts" yesterday morning. I was glad I had made plans for an early morning walk with a friend, because it kept my mind occupied for a while. However, it didn't take long for the feeling of unrest to come back. While getting my breakfast, I glanced at the calendar on my refrigerator and realized it was May 28. A year ago on that day I fell and broke my arm. To be exact, it was my humerus, which is the bone that runs from the shoulder to the elbow. I had shattered it—and, yes, it wasn't the least bit funny. It was just one more stressful situation in lives that were already way over stressed.
Was it the subconscious memory of that traumatic day that caused the uneasiness I felt when I awoke? Maybe. Maybe not. But, once I realized the significance of that date, I found it hard to shake the memories associated with it. I was filled with sadness and regret that, during the last 3 weeks of his life, Art had to stand helplessly by as an ambulance took me to the hospital for surgery; and what saddened me the most, was remembering that, from May 28 until he died on June 24, I was never again able to put both my arms around him and give him a hug.
My arm is still healing; so is my heart. And life goes on.
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