Someone told me yesterday that I will live a long time, until I'm in my 90s. I didn't believe her. There's no reason for me to stay alive for that long, unless God wants to play a joke on me.
I broke my hip last April 1.
Luckily, or not, I was in St. Luke's when I slipped and fell down the stairs. They whisked me away to the emergency room. During the whole time, I was wondering what if this happened at home? What if the phone was out of reach? Could I dial 911 and help would arrive?
I was in hospital for a week. My aunt took care of me and paid all the bills, which cost as much as a hefty downpayment for a new car. When I was released, she took me home back to the province. I wallowed in bed and was served my meals. After my wound healed, a physical therapist started visiting me twice a week.
I can walk now. A bit. With a cane. But not too much. "Recovery is on schedule," my doctor said.
During that whole time, I watched way too much TV and ate very little, resulting in my now trendy body type. (I should eat more now.) I filled three notebooks with all my self-pity. All without the Internet.