My mother always insisted on waiting until Twelfth Night, the Christian Epiphany, to take down the Christmas tree and decorations. For her, January 6 was the official end of Christmas and the final day of her annual galaxy of glitter. I must admit that I was always a little embarrassed by the lingering decor because it felt like we were staying a little too long at the party. We were not religious at all and did not attend church, so the incongruity of the requirements, sacred and secular, confused me. Biblically, Twelfth Night marks the arrival of the Magi, who traveled hundreds of miles from Persia (now Iran) to pay homage to the baby Jesus, but we never really discussed that part of the story. Even though I now put away the decorations on New Year’s Day, these twelve days still feel like an uncomfortable limbo — a nebulous abyss between Christmas and Epiphany, between the past and what’s next. As we look to 2025 with some trepidation, I’ve been feeling that familiar anxiety. Perhaps, it might have something to do with the number 12. Here is a baker’s dozen: 12 drummers drumming 12 eggs (or donuts) in a dozen 12 apostles 12 months in a year 12 signs of the zodiac 12 hours on the clock 12 angry (people) on a jury 12 Greek gods on Mount Olympus 12 function keys on the keyboard 12 hues on the color wheel 12 inches in a foot 12 days of Christmas and 12 pins in my shoulder Yep, that last one is the kicker — 12 pins in my shoulder. This Christmas and the four months that preceded it have been all about my upper-humerus fracture, subsequent surgery, and continuing recovery. This course of events is not something I would recommend to you — or anyone. One of the worst parts is that I now cringe when I think of my beloved New York City. On a September jaunt with girlfriends last year, I fell and fell hard while walking down the street in Midtown Manhattan at the end of a festive night. It was a freak splat on the concrete and curb that managed to break my arm, my glasses, and my cool-girl facade — while harshly revealing the precariousness of my existence. First, let me assure you: A high-humerus fracture is no joke. And it’s particularly lacking in amusement when it happens away from home at a time in your life with no personal support — and insurance coverage that’s an HMO Marketplace policy valid only in Texas. Frailty, thy name is humerus. Though I did get to test my metal, I discovered I am way over the metal-testing phase. I am maxed out, thank you very much. I’m already shouldering what can never be fixed — the death of my first-born son, Elliot, as well as the traumatic end of a toxic relationship last year, a professional betrayal, and my son Ian’s move to Austin . . . The list is exhausting. Physically, this has been one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. It’s tough to negotiate life in constant pain with only one working arm — my left in this case. Plus, I am right-handed, and I live alone. It’s a brave new world of vulnerability. The surgery was like part two of the same agonizing attack — down, out, and unable to move all over again for several weeks. Fixing my hair, opening the refrigerator, getting dressed, taking a shower, opening a jar — everything was harder, slower, and more agonizing. And I was housebound. No driving. Some did not fully understand what I was experiencing. I guess they didn’t have to. Until it happens to them, it’s hard to fathom, and of course, they had their own fish to fry. But you learn who your friends are in dire situations like this. With the fair-weather type, you’ll always be carrying your own umbrella. But then, some folks surprise you and step up in astonishing ways. It’s very similar to my journey of grief. For example, my dear friend Laura of almost forty years, who now lives in Austin, did not skip a beat in offering to come to Dallas to stay with me for the surgery. “You’d do it for me, “she assured me. That I would. She brought yummy homemade food, fresh and frozen, and made me laugh — the best medicine. My son Ian tag-teamed with her. Though I could tell the visit was not his favorite activity, I appreciated his presence so much. My beautiful neighbors, “the Judys,” saved my bacon, though I believe one of them is practically a vegetarian. They say community is built through compassionate acts, and they personify that ideal. Judy S took me to countless post-op doctor’s appointments in Plano, shopped for me, and ran errands. Judy L took my cat Vivian to the vet and was always ready to help. My dear neighbor Tracy offered to shuttle me to my therapist just as I was about to call a Lyft. This experience renewed my faith in people and reminded me of what is most valuable in life — the glimpses of grace and the unexpected acts of spontaneous kindness that sustain us. When I took the awful tumble, I felt so alone, stupid, and miserable, but I needed to recognize my own humanity and the fact that we all teeter on the edge of disaster most of the time. That’s why we all need a hand to grab as we extend the other — I’ll get here soon enough. I had lived more than half a century without breaking a major bone. Was that luck or random grace? Maybe the emotional intensity of this event is my soul’s recognition of the latter. I’m also reminded of the raw fragility of life, like that horrible Sunday six years ago when a tragic motorcycle mishap we may never fully understand took the life of my bold and brilliant Elliot. The hard truth is that these moments of extreme wobbliness can defy our ability to control them. So, on this 2025 Twelfth Night, I will remember how my mother clung to every last glimmer of Christmas sparkle; I will be grateful for the generosity of the precious angels in my midst; I will embrace the 12 pins that permanently reinforce my brittle, high-riding humerus, and I will do my best to notice every bittersweet moment of random grace. You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Friday, 3 January 2025
Frailty, Thy Name is Humerus
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