“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi
Just over three months ago, I fell down the long, narrow, hardwood staircase in our old house and broke my right shoulder. “Shattered” was actually the word the medical people used, which told me it was pretty serious.
My pleas for no surgery fell on deaf ears (thankfully, as there was apparently no healing without such intervention.) So now I’m the proud bearer of a shoulder full of “hardware” as the medical people call it — two plates and nine long screws. The x-ray is scary to look at.
Before this mess with my shoulder, I had never been in the hospital – not even to have my kids. They were born at home with skilled and licensed midwives (this was back in the Hippie days.) There was a doctor standing by, but he was not needed. Due to good health, good habits and germophobic behavior that rivals Howard Hughes’, no one in my family has been to the doctor much. We’re just not “doctor people” and so far, with a few minor exceptions, the Good Lord has blessed us with being able to carry on that way.