Let The Healing Begin

I'm not exactly sure in what capacity, if any, I've written about my forever-mending broken wrist. I use the term 'forever-mending' because the break was so severe that I'm forever scarred, disfigured, and almost never without pain.

I'm not angry, spiteful, or in any way shape or form trying to get even with the person partially responsible by writing this entry. We're still friends. And by 'friends' I mean we're MySpace pals and if and when I see him I exchange pleasantries and nothing more. I'm now living my life, he's living his. Many miles apart.

Also, I'm sure he pops in here now and again.

When it happened I cried out in pain, and in the same instant my body seemed to kick in an extra amount of adrenalin it knew I would need to deal with the ordeal.

I calmly announced I'd broken my wrist. More precisely, I screamed that I'd shattered several bones. His back was turned and he refused to look in my direction; he simply sat on the edge of the bed.

I couldn't call 911 because my cell phone had been thrown against the wall and shattered to bits; I had no land line.

I slipped on my sandals and went outside to get help. Dazed, I stepped in front of an oncoming patrol car. The sheriff radioed for an ambulance.

Upon arriving at the hospital I heard a familiar voice, a friend who worked as a nurse received the ambulance's notice that they were en route, with me in tow.

God bless you, Elaine. And God bless whatever painkiller you gave me when I got there.

Twenty minutes later Elaine showed up at my bed with something a bit stronger. I remember her smiling, I remember her telling me that she was there to take care of me, and I remember the needle entering my arm.

The few hours following that; I simply have no recollection.

The next morning I was scheduled for surgery. Driven to the hospital by the same young man partially responsible for the break, I was still groggy from the medication Elaine administered the night before.

The doctor who performed the operation informed me that because of the severity of the break, casting the wrist was simply not an option. It would never heal if he did this. I wrote on a slip of paper: "I, Frank Gumola, give doctor XXX permission to perform whatever surgical procedures necessary so that he may correct the break and allow my wrist to perform as perfectly as possible."

With tears in my eyes, I handed over the paper.

I had no insurance. I had no money. But by the grace of God I'd found the one doctor in my former home town who had a soft spot in his heart for gay men and women in my situation. I later learned a great deal about this doctor and his community service.

I woke up three hours later with four pins and a fixator attached to my left wrist.

I wore the device and suffered through swelling, pain, and unfathomable itching for nearly three months.

I lived with the man partially responsible the whole time.

When I was nearly fully recovered, another fight ensued. He grabbed my left arm and hit me just above the wrist, slightly fracturing my arm. 'We' finally ended, long after we should have.

David has never once hit me, not even in jest.

When an argument between us unfurls, when my Italian temper takes over and I begin to get a little loud, an amazing thing happens; his arms remain flat at his side, his hands stay unfurled.

I start Yoga classes soon, and I'm hoping they act as a sort of physical therapy for the pain in my wrist.

My heart is already taken care of.

This entry was posted by Frankie, on 4.14.2007. You can leave your response.