Sequences of events of the morning of my birthday, the “day after,” if you will, are somewhat hazy and certainly jumbled in my memory. I do remember the persons I saw that day, but recalling the order in which I saw them and all the interaction that took place is suspect, at best.

      At some point I awakened from a nap to see my wife in the room, perhaps with her mom and step-father. She wasn't happy and looked anxious. Aside from the obvious reasons for those feelings, I believe she was probably battling something in her heart, engaged in an internal conversation about what this would do to her freedom. It's one thing to walk away from a healthy spouse, yet quite another to dismiss one who has just suffered a significant injury and will need assistance in many things for a brief time. I would later learn that she was also upset that I had called the mother of my children before I called her. Or perhaps she was just uncomfortable sharing concern with another ex? Whatever the case, I knew she was not there out of love and affection, but more from obligation. That, in itself, was sobering and saddening to me.

      A more positive and vivid memory was of my father-in-law taking time out to feed me, spoon by spoon, sip by sip, while attempting to encourage me and put me at ease. He was a warrior for his family, and he was was fighting for me, even in this small way. He was generous and kind, and in the coming days we would have opportunities arise to engage in deeper conversations about the shattering of my heart, as well as these wrists.

      There is a more profound memory of my children, along with their mom, standing at my bedside. The expression of a confused bewilderment on the kids' faces was apparent. They had never seen their dad in this type of situation; physically incapacitated and loopy from a pain killer. Though we joke of it now, it was a sobering moment for them, I'm sure, shattering in it's own way. Having not lived with them for almost eight years, there was little opportunity for them to see daddy in situations and context other than having them over as “company” in my house. This was quite different. My boys, being boys, after all, and a bit older, didn't have the same shell-shocked look. They may have had a bit of curiosity and concern, but I think they just wanted to know the gory details of what happened. There's kind of a macho “coolness” about it, I suppose? Their mom- a nursing instructor - knew several of the nurses in the ER, and one that was actually attending on me. I felt a particular vulnerability with that. An ex-wife has a friend who is attending me, an incapacitated “would-be” victim? I chuckle now as I ponder the jokes that most certainly made the rounds.

      As my oldest daughter grew a bit faint while in the room – mostly from needing food and not from the sight of me, I presume – my kids and their mom decided to leave. I was happy that they had come to see me. Despite my massive mishandling of the marriage between their mom and I, her care for me as a person was still evident, and I was genuinely appreciative. It was quite the polar opposite in regard to my current wife. So, as my first wife and my four precious children filed out of the room, I was left with the thoughts of which nurse was the one I had to be afraid of (chuckle), and more thoughts of deep loneliness. The loneliness would only get far, far worse.

I've heard stories of others' experiences with catastrophe and how adrenalin surging through a body made happen what seemed impossible, or at least very unlikely, to occur. Super human strength utilized to save another life, or unfathomable physical endurance resulting in a life that was lost being found again is quite fantastic to ponder. My adrenalin merely enabled me to reach into my front pocket with a smashed wrist and somehow pull out a cell phone. How I managed to dial a number is a mystery to me now. But dial I did. When she didn't answer my call, I left a message for my estranged wife, then called 911, and then spoke with the mother of my children. Three painstaking phone calls.

I suppose that I must have rolled my body upright somehow (a skill I would need often in the coming days), and I walked gingerly to my truck to wait on the ambulance to find me. A few minutes later, leaning casually against the tailgate I waved down the ambulance as the driver searched fruitlessly for the address. I was quite coherent at that point, the adrenalin still flowing, the shock still in effect, perhaps, and the swelling still quite minimal. The paramedics made reference to my calmness. This was either a strategy to keep me calm, the truth, or both. However, the calm demeanor, like the adrenalin, didn't last.

Once inside the Emergency Room and through triage I was ready for the next step of getting x-rays to determine the extent of the damage. There, on the gurney and in the room where I would wait for someone to take me to x-ray, I had time to start thinking about my strange twist of events here. I also had time for the swelling and my impatience to increase – both resulting in more pain. Adrenalin stepped down, shock took a backseat to reality, and pain took over. It wasn't just physical pain. The paramedics who had transported me stopped by the room to give their best wishes, a very kind gesture. I asked one of them to hand me my cell phone. At this point I was unable to dial - the swelling had made my fingers inoperable- so after having one of the men dial for me, I put the phone to my ear and waited for my estranged wife to answer.

I suppose that I hoped she had already heard the message I had left her earlier, and that her voice would be full of care and concern for my well-being. I know that I hoped for that. But instead, I was met with a harried and irritable response, as if I was pestering her. She obviously had not listened to her messages. I'm betting that, unconsciously, I wished she would feel badly for her carelessness for me, as I told her what had transpired and where I was. Once informed her tone certainly changed, but I don't really know what was in her heart for me. I hung up, continued waiting on the X-ray technician, and contemplated being alone, again.

Placing my wrists in various positions on a board and asking me not to move while they click the “shutter” on the machine borders on cruelty, at least in the moment. In retrospect, of course, despite the fact that it was obvious that my arms were broken, I know it was necessary to survey the true extent of damage in order for the surgeon to implement a proper course of action. A simple fracture would require an altogether differentcorrective procedure than for what had happened to my arms – a shattering. In my case a simple re-setting of the bones was not an option. Surgery, and a complicated one, at that, was desperately needed in order for my wrists to be restored to some amount of function.

When the doctor entered my room I didn't get a sense of bedside manner of any sort, good or bad. I was in my own world of confusion, lonesomeness, and fear. Though I appeared calm and steady, I remember trying to stifle a great deal of anxiety. So, if he was brief and direct rather than lingering and in-depth, I didn't much notice. The good doctor briefed me that, indeed, my wrists were in many pieces and would require delicate and time-consuming surgery. There would be pins and metal that would remain part of my hands forever, and more than likely accompanied by chronic arthritis. With therapy I might regain seventy percent of normal function. And with that he pronounced that they would be prepping me for surgery very soon. As he left the room, I pondered the terms “chronic arthritis,” “pins,” “therapy,” and every other possible thing loosely associated with this whole ordeal I lay there – alone. The following day would be my birthday.

If you believe in coincidence I suspect that you are more inclined to believe that commmonplace events and activity are mundane and routine. Accidents may be random, happen to many, and quite often. It may be to you that the ambulance's siren is more noise pollution than a somber signal that somewhere there is a person whose world has just been shaken. The world can be cruel and full of happenstance, so we all encounter trouble, and must either endure it or get relief.

But, if you believe that there is design, and not coincidence, then it is possible to believe that even the seemingly mundane events, or common accidents can be transformative in nature, drawing us into a story greater than ourselves. I believe in Design.

I was up high, a good twenty-five feet, maybe. I wouldn't have been here, in this precarious position had it not been for the departure of my wife about a month earlier. The margins on this job needed to increase now that I was solely responsible for my house and expenses. So, I took on the challenge of being a painter, since I had my own rig.

I had painted a majority of the house already and had previously used the same method to get to the highest points. However, I was always able to get the scaffolding right up against the house, therefore creating at least better conditions for stability. On this last side there was a garden that protruded about two to three feet, so getting the scaffolds where I wanted them was a problem.

I would like to say that I was thinking clearly then, but I wasn't. I was in deep turmoil over my wife and our separation. . My head was spinning with hundreds of thoughts and my heart was heavy. Concentration was not easy, to say the least. So, I rolled the scaffolding up to the landscaping stones, these sturdy and stout stones used to retain the soil in the garden. I placed the ladder on top of the scaffolding and extended it almost to it's limit so that I could reach the peak with the paint gun. And I climbed.

Atop the end of the ladder that was resting on top of the scaffolding, I stretched out with the paint gun. Watching the paint go on the soffit with such ease was somewhat satisfying, yet as I stated earlier, my mind was running non-stop about other things. Also, being atop the ladder, I was not aware (as I should have been) of what my shifting weight was doing down below. As I stretched to the right, trying to take advantage of every square foot coverage possible, I felt something move.

“Oh, Shit,” I said as I knew what was about to happen. The split seconds between my expletive and the thud of my head hitting the ground are not part of memory. I suppose the brain blocks these things? I am reasonably certain that I didn't lose conciousness. Yes. My head hit the ground, but it was ground and not concrete. Nor did I land on the landscaping stones that were a mere foot from my head.

I had broken my left wrist once when I was in High school, the result of flipping over my bicycle handlebars. I remember that I felt energy drain from me when I looked at my wrist that day and knew that it was broken. But on this day, once I got my “wits about me” after the fall, I took a look at my left wrist. My watch was gone and there was a mangled mess of a wrist. I looked at my right wrist and, to my dismay, it was a twin of the left. At that moment I knew that a major change in life had just happened. I was in business for myself and it was obvious that I would not be working for quite a while, if ever again (with my hands). A few seconds of not thinking, a few more seconds of physics and the law of gravity playing out, and here I am, laying on my stomach, arms outstretched, and all by myself. I was on this jobsite alone.