The Marionette & The Broken Man

After the fall, after you slam onto the cement and sit in shock, immobile, how awful is the damage? Any bones poking through the skin? Any bleeding? Other than your pelvis and a bump on your head from the ladder, is there any other pain? Can you wiggle your toes? Do you call an ambulance first or your wife? Where is your cell phone?

Multiple fractures of the pelvis, too many for surgery. After four days in a trauma ward, an ambulance transfers you to a rehab facility. The physical therapist examines your chart. “Seven fractures of your pelvis,” she says, “including Lumbar L5, Pubic Ramus Rt., Interior and Superior, etc. You sir, are my broken man.”

Not since you were an infant have you been so helpless. You cannot sit up, let alone stand up, or walk. You cannot dress yourself or go to the bathroom by yourself. During the following weeks you learn the names of your drugs: Tamsulosin, Apixaban, Mehocarbamol, Melatonin, plus Oxycodone HC1, and Lidocane Patches for the constant pain.

The marionette. Where did it come from? Already here when you arrived? Does anyone other than you even see it? Yesterday one of the nurses glanced in its direction, stared, shrugged, then continued making beds. For the most part it remains silent except, in the middle of the night, it emits faint sounds of a harpsichord.

Then this morning, in the dark, a little wooden hand raises your chin from the pillow. A whisper: “The Sun is coming! Melting snow will nourish the oak tree and turn the gray world into green. You will walk out of this place. You will dance again.”

Then: “Take me with you! Don’t leave me alone!”

For more thoughts and images:

My book ☛ Double Vision, Waking Dreams
My website ☛ JohnMichaelKeating.com