(This is John Goodman as the “Cyclops” from Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, which is based on a Homeric epic poem called The Odyssey. I doubt if either John Goodman or Homer cares if I use this image.)
But at Brandywine, the one-armed woman can’t do $hit.
I apologize in advance for the length of this story. It takes a long time to explain how you lost (temporarily, one hopes) the use of half of your right arm, kinda. Because a car fell on you.
We could very well own what could be the oldest Volvo station wagon east of the Mississippi. (This one above is not ours…ours is far dirtier.)
We bought it when the kids were little, knowing it would one day become the car they would learn to drive, and that it was incredibly safe. (Little did we know that our daughter—not her real name—would not be able to reach the pedals. We had to find a different car for her.) This car is so old, it will soon be eligible for Social Security. But it fits a sheet of drywall between the wheel wells (which, for my husband, is the hallmark of the perfect vehicle) so we haven’t put it out to pasture yet.
Given its advanced age, there are things on this car that no longer work properly—kind of like on me. And recently the hydraulic thingie (technical term) that holds the hatchback up stopped working. So we did what all resilient/thrifty midwesterners (by nature, not geography) do—we got a length of PVC pipe and jammed it into a place that would hold the hatch up when we needed it to.
Except one time, I got it wrong.
And all 30 pounds of hatchback, moving at however many miles per hour, came down full force square on my shoulder.
It knocked me down, but being of hardy stock, I got back up and proceeded with my day, and in an hour or so it stopped hurting, and I pretty much forgot about it.
Until a few weeks later, when I could no longer move my arm. Like, at all.
Apparently, all kinds of scar tissue has built up inside my shoulder, impeding movement and causing me to scream at inopportune moments, as if I have an odd form of pain-related Tourette’s. And the list of things I CAN’T do is now longer than the list of things I can. Using my hand for any length of time is painful, so I “save” my extended motion for school---which means no blogging. (This post has taken me four days to write, because I can only write a few paragraphs at a time.) I can’t write on the top part of the white board, because I can’t raise my arm that high. I can’t take photos for “Walkabout Wednesday.” I can’t really paint any furniture. On a happier note, I can’t really vacuum too easily. I can do the dishes, but I can’t put them away. I can iron, dammit.
Anyway, I am doing the exercises the physical
PS - While I'm on the mend, I'm sending you to read some great magazines put together by Kerryanne English, who lives Down Under.
Also, don't forget we're reading a great book this month, The American Heiress.