The Walking Wounded
Between the drugs and the pain lives the walking wounded, a writer with a story and no way to tell it.
It’s been three weeks since the fall and almost that long since the last blog entry. I figured it was time for an update. Sleep has been fleeting, at best. Can’t seem to find a comfort zone that will keep me in nocturnal bliss more than two hours at a time. I want to do more than I can do and every now and then I will move a certain way and get a sharp reminder that I can’t.
I finally put it in perspective last week when I used the words “Broken arm” in a sentence. It sounds much more definite than a “Fractured humerus,” now doesn’t it.
Anyway, I will be back at the VA a week from today getting a new X-ray and the next set of marching orders, which I hope includes exercising and moving the arm, which in turn gets me that much closer to being back on Pearl.
It also means I should be able to get back to doing a full days of writing. Just these few short paragraphs have my shoulder in a soft burn. It will be hard to make word count with this broken wing.
I want to write and I want to ride. Sucks to be me.
“I write to escape … to escape poverty.” ~ Edgar Rice Burroughs