Bad Breaks

Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on
in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace,
like a clock during a thunderstorm.

— Robert Louis Stevenson

While 2020 brought misfortune to so many, it was kind to me—so much so, I often felt spooked. 

The things that went well for me all went exceedingly well, while the things that went wrong were without consequence.

I often felt like Jean-Paul Sartre's fearless skier, who enjoys such complete dominion over the slopes that he glides down them weightlessly, not even leaving tracks in the snow. (He is Sartre's metaphor for the unbounded ego.)

I felt like that skier, anyway, until last Sunday, when a fall on the ice in my driveway left me with five breaks in the bones that form my left ankle.

Now I'm an invalid; in pain and facing surgery; and will be laid up in a cast for over three months.

The caregivers in the ER were all quick to point out, "Just be happy you didn't conk your head on the pavement."

They were absolutely right, of course.

I'm happy I didn't hit my head. I'm also happy for the good neighbors who rushed to my rescue; for the ambulance drivers who arrived in 10 minutes and wheeled me out of the house and into the hospital; for the doctors and nurses on duty in the ER last Sunday, and for the surgeon who's going to install plates and screws in my leg next week; for sympathetic friends and relatives; for my oldest son, who played sitter while my wife finished her last week on the job (she's retiring); and for my wife, who's playing sitter now—and will for another 12 weeks, provided I behave.

As she pointed out, given the lockdown, I picked an excellent time to break five bones. Or the excellent time picked me.

She's sleeping right now and I'm perched on the sofa with my splinted leg up on a hassock. The only sounds are those of the windchimes outdoors, an occasional car on the road, and the tick-tock of the kitchen clock.

I pray for a quiet mind in 2021. "Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace," Stevenson said.

Even a fortunate son is liable to bad breaks.

How about you?  

Above: "Clock" by John Murray.