On Friday, the surgeon told me I could remove the splint from my wrist. The next day, I got up, made a pot of coffee and wrote for 12 hours straight. I was so relieved to be able to use my hand again, I didn't stop, even to grab a handful of crackers.
I eventually hit the wall. I dumped some dried split peas into a pot of water and before they were fully cooked, began throwing in stuff I found in the cupboards, freezer and fridge. I was done writing for the day and I was ravenous. I eventually put some of the soup in a mug, but most was eaten directly from the pan.
The next day, I washed the floors, which had been dusted and mopped but not scrubbed for weeks. By the time I'd finished, my wrist and elbow were so sore, I needed a pain pill and a nap.
My landlord and maintenance man arrived yesterday to inspect the baby squirrel-sized hole in the bathroom wall and the one on the exterior of the house that serves as the squirrel colony's front door. They didn't comment on their plans, but I'm rather hopeful the squirrels will be evicted, rather than me.
I've read a lot in the past several weeks. I slept a lot, too. I tried not to think.
Expressions of friendship and concern came from people I barely know and in many cases, have never met. They're all people with busy lives, but they wanted me to know they care. A couple of them asked, "How's your hand?" Others asked about my wrist, my elbow or my arm. A few asked about my leg.
I've struggled with an appropriate response to the following question, which, until now, I've been unable to answer.
"How's your novel coming?
It's coming along.