On the second Sunday afternoon in August, life as I know it paused for the foreseeable future. I had a full week’s worth of plans: attending an open house in the north Georgia mountains, dinner with girlfriends in my neighborhood, Friday night jazz at the High Museum with family (which had been on my calendar for six months), and lunch with my writing critique group followed by my monthly Atlanta Writers Club meeting. Everything kicked off that evening with my daughter-in-law’s birthday dinner. 

But before I got to any of that, a pick-up truck almost ran me down in the Costco parking lot. (Surely the driver didn’t see me or he would have stopped, right?)  

I tripped on the curb getting out of his way. I caught my fall, and my arm fractured in a spiral that runs from just above my elbow almost into my shoulder, like a piece of bamboo grabbed at each end and twisted in opposite directions. When I raised my head from the sidewalk and looked down at my arm, I only needed a glance to know it was broken.  

In the emergency room, they said I needed surgery within two days. But the orthopedic surgeon wants to try a compression brace first — which squeezes my arm like a vice — in hopes that the bone will grow back together. He didn’t sugarcoat the prognosis: if this works it will be a very slow and very painful process, but I would avoid a long scar, the risk of infection, potential paralysis of my hand, and permanent metal plates in my arm.  

I’m willing to try. 

My world flipped that Sunday, no longer sunny side up like my name. Everything inverted.  

Instead of feeling strong and capable, I rely on being still and clever: picking up things from the floor or moving items from the washer to the dryer with my toes (leaning forward is painful); wedging a long, skinny teaspoon into the compression brace around my arm to scratch an itch or extending it to adjust the tilt of my desk fan; pinning bottles and tubs of yogurt between my body, the kitchen counter, and the corner of the dishwasher to open lids. 

Instead of tallying my daily word count or how many chapters I’ve edited in the second draft of my first novel, I’m counting the number of calcium pills I’ve taken and how many minutes I’ve spent in the sun (doctor’s orders for vitamin D, which will help me absorb calcium and make my bones stronger). 

My perception of the world and the people around me has adjusted also. The news networks and social media want me to believe we are a very divided people, and maybe we are, politically. But since the accident, although I’ve felt as helpless and vulnerable as a baby bird, I’ve witnessed the goodness, decency, and compassion of strangers:  

The first man on the scene, who sent his family inside and stayed with me in the parking lot, helping handle interactions with the store and the firemen called to the scene. The ER nurse who treated me like his dear friend instead of just another patient. Staff at the orthopedic surgeon’s office, who saw me anyway when I arrived on the wrong day for a follow-up appointment and showed me ways to combat swelling, and loosened my compression brace enough to wiggle something inside and scratch an itch that had driven me crazy for days (leading to my own idea with the spoon).  

“Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
Galatians 6:2 KJV  

 My world shrank. The big picture feels like a vague outline drawn with a shaky hand, like my left-handed signature when I checked myself into the emergency room.  

So I’m focusing on small things and searching for things to be grateful for each day: Neighbors who check on me and explain to my children that our roles have reversed, and they are the caregivers now. A husband who helps me navigate feeding, dressing, and cleaning myself while he regains stamina after an accident that left him on crutches for ten weeks. An empathetic dog who rushes to my side when I cry, sleeps between my knees, and apparently boosts my serotonin levels, which helps with bone health and healing. A friend who worked a full day then sat with me for three hours, like there was nowhere else she’d rather be. 

I appreciate favorite songs I haven’t heard in years, a fully-charged Kindle, neck rubs, a son who’s watching season one of 24 with me (first time for him, first time in years for me), a daughter who washed my hair and face and helped me feel human again, and another who wants to take me to Waffle House (the only place besides the doctor’s office I’m willing to show my face right now).  

Knowing I’ll never repeat the day of the accident is a comfort, but maybe someday it will help me write about trauma, pain, and what being in shock feels like. 

All of us are in different circumstances, but chances are you’re dealing with your own challenges now. I hope my story encourages you to support the people around you, whether friends, family, or strangers, to see the Lord’s provision in the bleakest circumstances, and when you find yourself overwhelmed by big worries, focus on simple daily blessings instead.  

In all things, God is good. 

Listen to Dawn’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Leave a Comment