Other People’s Stories and Why They Need to be Told

I have gained a lot of comfort hearing other people’s broken bone stories. They have survived to tell the tale and their words have been important for me to hear, especially when I’m feeling sorry for myself, which this January seem to be almost every other day.

It is good to be reassured and reminded that there is some light at the end of the tunnel. This is just a blip, a moment in time that will end.

I am trying to write my memoir, a statement which always sounds pompous to me but I’ve yet to find another way to describe it which I’m happier with.

After writing much flash fiction I found a site last year called Fiveminutelit.com. They publish a few pieces of Creative Non Fiction a week. The stipulation is that the incident you write about takes places in the time span of five minutes and you have an exact word count of 100 words.

I have had two pieces published, one rejection and I’m waiting for a third published piece to appear online in April.

“You should write you memoir like this.” Said a writing friend.

I let the comment go, unsure if this was the right form. I continued to fictionalise my story but I came unstuck when I realised how one dimensional I was as a fictitious character.

Maybe I really am a flat and boring person who just let’s things happen to her – that’s certainly the way I was writing.

There’s a quote in the film The Holiday

“You're supposed to be the leading lady in your own life, for God's sake!”

Making up my life story, with a twist, just wasn’t working, I wasn’t the leading lady or best friend just the flat doormat, knocked sideways by grief and too flimsy to recover.

I thought again about my 100 word pieces of writing and set myself a challenge – could I write 100 of these?

Could that be a memoir?

Or could it just be a starting point?

I’m still not sure of all the answers but as of this evening I have written 75 now from all stages of my life, growing up, wondering if I’d ever find a boyfriend, meeting Andrew, being married, having the boys, family life, being widowed, coming to terms with grief, getting cancer, more grief and so the list continues.

Is it interesting? Does it make sense? Could I publish it and would anyone want to read it?

Knowing how other people’s stories inspire me, I’d like to think my stories can be important too.

My life often feels so prosaic and ordinary but then I get positive comments about my blog that make me believe there is something in the mundane things of life that we all experience. Especially the taboo subjects like death and grief and cancer that we avoid talking about and yet can touch us deeply.

Other people’s stories are important so maybe mine are too and I shall keep writing until I get to 100.

Feeling Fragile

A line popped into my head the other day and suddenly I’d written a poem about the heart and how hearts don’t really break because they are made from squishy stuff. They can be bruised and squashed, torn or pulled taught, knotted and battered.

I know for a fact hearts are soft and squishy rather than hard and brittle because I’ve been binge watching Grey’s Anatomy, I’m still a bit squeamish and avert my eyes at some of the blood, gore and operations, but since having some of my own and living with scars I have become more curious, in awe of the talented surgeons.

But while hearts and soft and bouncy, bones are solid and dependable – until you fall and break one.

I’ve now had some follow up on my broken arm and while I was originally delighted to hear my break was an uncommon one - who wants to be like everyone else - I have now discovered the type of break I have is a fragility fracture, the sort of things found in the older population, a sign of weakening bones!

I’m not yet 55 and this has added a further dent to my confidence as if widowhood and cancer haven’t reminded me enough that life is a delicate balancing act we will all fail at - eventually..

No high wire trapeze acts for me if I can break just falling from ground level – that's what a fragility fracture means.

Image found at clipground.com

I’ve started on some medication – “your nana was on that,” says mum.

Great - that’s another bit of medical history I’ve inherited.

“We’ve not got great genes have we?” Said oldest son once, realising that cancer runs deep in my side of the family and heart disease is all too prevalent in his dad’s.

I’ve got thyroid issues too, all my own, I don't know any other family connection for that one.

The doctor tried to convince me I’m really not that old, but I feel worn down in this world that has never fully recovered from 2020. I want to write at least I’ve never knowingly had Covid, but will that jinx it?

I was one of only about three people wearing a mask in the supermarket today - prevention is better than cure, they say.

And maybe that's the way to look at my unlucky break too. A reminder to not be complacent. Being on medication (and hopefully being monitored by the hospital - a bone scan would be reassuring) may just prevent a far more serious injury in the future. 

In the present, it's only been 4 weeks since the break and it’s only January, a month when you often feel a little blue. As I cure I think it's time to throw the blanket around my shoulders, curl up with a mug of cocoa and watch another episode of two of Grey’s Anatomy, hoping the medical woes of others will trump my own and leave me feeling far more grateful.

As for my poem - I might just save that for the day of Squishy Hearts - Feb 14th 

There's a man on my roof...

There is a man on the roof and it sounds as if he’s clanging a dustbin lid above the chimney, the noise is reverberating all the way down to the lounge.

That’s what it sounds like because that is pretty much what is happening. The metal lid will close my chimney and forever stop the birds from flying down. I will never again have to hear the flap of wings beating on the back of the electric fire, which I so rarely use – who wants a living room to smell of toasted dust?

view from my capped chimney pot

No longer will I be compelled, with some fear and trepidation to pull the fire away from the gaping hole to release said bird. The small ones have great navigational skills and are on autopilot for the freedom of the open doors.

However, my last visitor was a dozy pigeon, give him his due he’s been in there a couple of days by the time I steeled myself up to let him out so perhaps he’s not totally to blame for his disorientation. I had a sixth sense that he would cause me trouble and lo and behold he flapped around bouncing off the ceiling a few times before landing on the carpet. I threw a blanket over him gathered him up, which made me feel very brave, and dumped him outside.

For a fleeting moment I thought he might attempt to get back in, so I shooed him off and shut the door quick!

No lasting damage – thank goodness its not a real open fire covered with soot, we had a sooty bird print on the ceiling in our old house from a similar event, most people never noticed or commented, but I always knew.

I just need to clear up all the bird poo and detritus hidden behind the electric fire. I’m guessing it will make good compost on my raised beds – a job for a brighter day.

The chimney sweep, who fitted the cap is my third gentleman caller this week.

On Monday it was the boiler man and Tuesday a decorator giving me a quote for decorating some bedrooms.

I’m not being sexist; it doesn’t have to be a handyMAN who does these jobs. I’m all for girl power and the sisterhood. I admire anyone who has these practical skills I don’t possess.

I can do basic knitting and sewing. I can bleed radiators and use a plunger. I know I am not completely incompetent but sometime it’s nice to find the right people to help out, especially when you are on your own. 

Especially when you are feeling fragile… but more on that another day!

A little bit broken

 Three weeks ago, we had ice.

I know we had ice because it was the day I slipped over, obviously with some grace and style, and as I put down my hand to break my fall I cracked a bone, just below the elbow.

I am still in a little bit of pain but it is easing and movement is returning.

I wonder if I will ever fully recover?

Who knows? There is no follow up appointment to attend, I have no cast on, so there is no need to return, that seems to be the way these days.

So many people have told me their own broken arm stories – I have two now – my first broken bone was caused playing football and putting my arm up to stop the ball and save a goal. Nothing spectacular, just a game in the garden with eldest son who was about ten at the time. Andrew was still alive, off shore at the time and he obviously had no sympathy. His own broken arm story was much more dramatic.

In time I healed and my broken bone anecdote is pretty much forgotten except by me.

I’m not sure if I’ll heal so well this time being older and generally more fragile. I was told I might not ever be able to straighten my arm fully but then again it’s only been 3 weeks and it could take up to six to mend and months to properly feel better.

If I were a Japanese pot I would be mended with gold.

The Japanese art of Kintsugi,
what is broken is mended with gold to make it stronger

I may have only ever broken two bones but there are other scars that I carry, physical ones and the emotional cracks of a broken heart from being widowed. With gold embellishment I would truly glitter and be worth a fortune.

But we don’t cover our bruises and breaks with gold, we stoically carry on with a stiff upper lip pretending all is well or we take our grievances out on everyone becoming grumpy and intolerant.

I went to see “A Man Called Otto” today, the latest film version of A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. I’ve read the book and seen the original film in Swedish with subtitles. This version with Tom Hanks is faithful to the story and as you would expect with such an accomplished star, excellent. I’m glad that Otto, as he’s been re-Christened, gets a chance to shine and reach a whole new audience. I’ve not cried and laughed at a film so much in a long time.

After the death of his wife, Otto is a broken man who contemplates joining her. Thankfully his meticulous suicide plans are foiled time and time again.

The beauty of Backman’s storytelling is how he peels away the layers of the story, never giving away too much too soon. Each revelation comes as a surprise, adding a new understanding of his complex characters.

I remember thinking how much Ove/Otto was like Andrew, grumpy, short tempered, with no time for idiots, except he has a big heart, broken and mended with gold. In the right circumstances his generosity is quite overwhelming.

Perhaps a broken arm doesn’t really compare to a broken heart, although, you need to be on the receiving end of the generosity – I can manage most things, I’m still stubbornly independent and self-reliant but I do need friends and family to give me lifts, as I’ve not contemplated driving yet. Accepting help can be a difficult lesson to learn.

We are all a little bit broken or cracked one way of another. Hopefully the process of mending gives us a chance to see things differently, an appreciation of all the other cracked pots in this world. 

cracked pots photo by Constance S Jackson 

And with some understanding maybe we can all reach out and make the world a better place.

Happy 2023!