It hurt like crazy. Tears stung my eyes.
My husband helped me up. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I wrapped my left hand around my right and pulled it protectively to my chest. “I think it’s my hand.”
“Is it broken?”
“I hope not.”
Awkwardly, I opened and closed my hand. I winced as I flexed my fingers, biting my lip with the effort. My whole hand hurt, but thankfully, my fingers were moving.
Since it didn’t appear to be broken, I took something for inflammation and tucked myself in bed, so that time could begin to work its magic. It was nearly midnight after all. My hand was beginning to swell and a blue stain was spreading across my palm.
It happened so fast. We had returned home late from traveling, and I had dashed to the mailbox to retrieve the mail. The toe of my shoe caught on an uneven seam in the concrete. I went down hard, catching myself with my hand.
I was grateful that nothing seemed to be broken, but the healing took time, and it wasn’t just my hand that hurt. My body seemed to be in shock. I needed extra sleep and I felt awful. I had limited energy and tired easily. I was moody and a little depressed.
That was about three weeks ago. My hand looks and feels a lot better. The rest of me feels better too, at least most of the time. I still type with only two fingers on my right hand, and play only with my left hand on the piano. I still tire easily.
I appreciate my body more each day. What would I do without hands? The body has a miraculous power to heal itself.
I love miracles, even the miracles that take time.