Resistance

Every time I meet with one of my writing groups I get an interesting and challenging prompt. This last week’s prompt was:

What is something I resist. What am I doing when I resist?

And here is what I came up with. Needless to say, it’s connected to my recent bicycle accident which is still very much on my mind. As much as I try to stop thinking about it it doesn’t go away. I call it

Resistance

Just after the man on the bicycle ran over me and I was taken to the ER and later in the day to the ICU, I resisted seeing any of the people who wanted to call and visit me. At that point I could barely talk – not even to my son Ben who was in the room with me most of the time. I just wanted to lay in bed in my hospital gown, covered with bandages all over my arms and the back of my head. I was sure no one wanted to see me like that so I did the best I could to prevent it.

At those early times no one, including myself, was sure I had enough brain power to carry on a coherent conversation. But, after a few days I got moved to a rehab facility and began to wear clothes again and eat almost normal meals. Still, I didn’t want to talk to anyone by phone or see any people from outside the hospital except my son and daughter-in-law.

Now, four months since the accident, I still don’t want to talk about it. People want to tell me what a horrible thing I went through, and I should be proud of myself for surviving it. I know I was lucky to have survived without broken body bones and with a mind intact. However, just lately I’ve been looking at what happened to my arms and head. Just the other day the scab created on my broken skull after I was thrown to the ground came off. It was a thick scab covered with hairs that were probably on my head the day of the accident. Also, in the scab’s place is a little indentation on my skull that makes me wonder if I’m all there.

I also have no more arm and hand bandages on me. But I look at my residual wounds – none of which hurt – and wonder how lucky I am to still have my arms. These wounds will leave scars that will last the rest of my life for sure. And for sure I will keep resisting wanting to talk about them and showing them off.

Maybe as I get older and more wrinkly, the scars will meld into those wrinkles and I’ll be  less sensitive about them.

A vector of a male biker with helmet biking isolated against white background

Most of all I want to forget that that man ran me over at all. I don’t want to tell people the details or show them the evidence. That man didn’t take away my life, that man didn’t take away my ability to do the things important to me like walk every day, write my poems and journal entries, and interact with my friends and family. So I don’t need to keep reminding others and myself that he exists at all.