Tuesday, 2 April 2013


But note the clues: Me leaning completely on my right cheek because my left cheek is the colour of blood pudding; the crutches jauntily perched against the wall, the tall glass of healthful "juice" in the foreground. (Is it noon yet? CHEERS!)

A friend of mine, having heard that I catapulted myself off a moped and into the emergency ward of a Bermuda hospital, stopped by on the weekend. I don't know if she has any idea how much that meant to me, because the simplest things have taken on new meaning since this accident. The act of walking across a room without shrieking: "Ow Ow Ow WHAT THE MUTHERLOVIN' HELL?!?" has become something I can only dimly remember. The act of bending over to tie a shoe? Oh, dare to dream! Making myself dinner? Sure! I'll whip up my specialty, Advil with vodka dipping sauce.

On the day she stopped by, I was feeling especially cabin feverish. I'd been bedridden for days, hadn't washed my hair for more than a week, had developed a creepy-close relationship with painkillers and had comedian Kathy Griffin's Red White and Raw DVD on infinite repeat. The curtains were drawn; I didn't want to look out the window, because I heard it was nice out and people were walking all over the place. Showoffs!
I was bored beyond belief, but I didn't realize it until my friend texted to say "I'm comin' over and making breakfast. I've got all the fixins!" By which I assumed she meant liquor.

I wasn't sure I was up to a visit but I forced myself to shake off the stupor and splash soap and water on myself. Hmm. Surprisingly invigorating. I put on fresh clothing: hey! Now I was humming.
To make a long story short, my friend came by, made scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, cheese and tomatoes and then sat down for a good juicy gossip. Sweet mother of tensor bandages, I hadn't had this much fun since the night before the accident. Which was a very fun night . . . and I'll just leave it at that because even thinking about it is making my leg hurt.

"How are you feeling?" my friend asked about halfway through breakfast. "Comfortable?"
"I feel great," I said. "This has so cheered me up."

My friend nodded, smiling. "I knew you needed this," she said. 

Afterwards, she washed the dishes and packed her things up, because she had to go to work. I know how challenging and demanding her job is, so for her to squeeze in breakfast and a visit out of town BEFORE her shift? Wow. Amazing. It meant the world and it did more for me than the painkillers ever could. More than the crutches. More than the large bottle of Prince Igor vodk ... okay that's just sacrilige, so I'll stop there.
The point is, there are many kinds of medicine that can treat a wound, but the most powerful medicines treat the soul. So thanks, my friend. You're a good doctor.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Despite her incessant whining, Whorrified is finally feeling much, much better, thanks to family and friends. She got up to walk unaided yesterday and I only heard the F-word once!
MY NOTE: And that's because you'd hidden the vodka.