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!

Too Many Broken Hearts

 In 1989 when Stock, Aiken and Waterman ruled the radio airwaves, Jason Donovan sang about broken hearts to an up-beat, bouncy disco tune. In the video he sat strumming his guitar, with no anguish in his demeanor just a dazzling smile somewhat at odds with the title of the song.

It contains the line…

I’ll be hurt, I’ll be hurt if you walk away!

Thinking about the lyrics and the tune now it’s all so feeble. It could be describing kids squabbling in a playground kind of “hurt” - you pushed me - you started it. A small graze on the knee kind of hurt which will scab over only leaving the faintest of scars if you pick at it too much.

At the time I loved the song, after all Jason, Kylie and I were in born in the same year, so we must be kindred spirits – ’68 was such a good vintage.

Over thirty years later (which doesn’t seem possible) I know the real pain of a broken heart, it’s beyond a little bit of hurt, but Mr Donovan is right about one thing, there are far too many of them in the world.

I guess it’s inevitable as you get older that more people join that special club, the one I’ve been a part of for years, exclusively for widows, widowers and those who have lost the love of their lives. As time rolls on, I find more and more friends and acquaintances cross over to my camp.  Once I was the pioneer, the only one here negotiating this strange new territory.

Maybe that’s too fanciful an image but when I started my first blog, just after Andrew died, friends read my words and were helped as I poured out the contents of my broken heart into the ether.

I’ve always wanted to turn my words into a book, hoping the wisdom I have gathered can help others. My legacy, some recompense for my own suffering, making it all strangely worthwhile.

To this end I put my money where my mouth is and coughed up for a Curtis Brown Creative short, online, writing course in the summer, led by memoirist Cathy Rentzenbrink. She is an excellent teacher, even if on the short course you only get to watch her video tutorials rather than meet her in person.

I turned in my shorter assignments each week and got some great peer feedback from others on the course. Encouragement to carry on, I have a story to tell.

But writing a memoir is so different from writing a blog. It needs more of a narrative, a story telling quality. The facts I consider most important and want to explain in great detail need cutting as I show the scenes of my life through a cinematic lens. I need drama, light and shade, panning shots and zooming in. Show not tell.

I have never appreciated all this before. At the beginning I just thought I could stitch together blog posts with a few extra comments in between as glue, it was just a matter of rearranging and sorting. This process has taken me ten years already, stopping and starting, and maybe it will take another ten to complete it, which is a daunting prospect.

Meanwhile the list of the broken hearted grows and I welcome others to this barren land of bereavement.

Nothing I write can ever heal a deepest hurt but I remain convinced I need to keep going. Hoping and praying my words find the right ear and bring some soothing balm in difficult days, a quiet voice whispering, "I know your heart aches and you are not alone."