In the middle of Monday night, half asleep and in my own home after several nights away, I mistook my route to the bathroom and fell backwards down a flight of fourteen steep stairs. I recall the sensation of falling, pain, and the struggle first to kneel, and then to crawl back up the stairs to the bathroom. Mostly I remember my determination to get help.
Help came quickly from a wonderful neighbour, and from the incomparable NHS. I was back home three hours later, checked, X-rayed, diagnosed with snapped clavicular ligaments, strapped up tight and an appointment with a specialist for today. Pulled ligaments in my right knee are painful and I have bruises and carpet friction burns in various places.
I am right-handed. My right arm is out of commission for weeks and I have a novel to write. But it could have been worse, far worse. Last week’s blog post could have been my last and I have so much living still to do.
As it is, I’m realising already that I can manage most things, but much more slowly. Typing with one left finger, for example, means that I have to slow down both my ideas and the words to express them. For someone who’s done everything too quickly for the past sixty plus years, this is no bad thing, so long as I can accept it without fretting. I’ve moved in with a friend for a while to help me with the basics, and I’ve brought all my book writing stuff with me, determined to use my enforced rest to keep my mind and my left forefinger busy. I shall write, much more slowly than usual, and turn physical idleness into mental activity.