Feeling tired and on edge, I berated at least two customer reps on the phone and emailed multiple complaints when the UPS failed to deliver by debit card on time.
After getting a new phone and some cash, Anna and I went to the grocery store. She then left. I went back to my to-do list, the only thing that provided me with some structure and gave me an illusion of control.
I had to figure out my insurance situation. There was no way on earth I would be able to handle medical costs, especially surgery. Two ER visits, duplicate X-rays, and upcoming consultation with an orthopedic surgeon — I’d go bankrupt or fall into debt for a long time. I began to research my options, wrote letters for financial assistance, and made calls.
I then responded to a few job opportunities, arranged for a locksmith to change my door lock on Monday (still felt paranoid about those kids having my address and keys), and canceled my Sunday tennis game. I let my tennis instructor know that I probably wouldn’t be playing for a few weeks, maybe months. I was bracing for a long recovery without stopping to contemplate any feelings. Tennis sustained me in more than one way, and I knew I’d get really depressed if I dwelled on the thought of giving it up for a while.
The next few days it was all about taking care of business. Everywhere I went, people asked what had happened to my hand. “Who did you punch?” “Stop punching people, girl.” “Hey hot shot, what you got over there?” “That doesn’t look fun.”
People also volunteered to share their stories. A sales assistant who helped me find Advil at Walgreens told me how when she broke her fingers, her never-do-well husband made her cook and clean, so her bones never healed properly and now she suffers from arthritis. A cashier at the grocery store, who never spoke to me in the many years I shopped there, told me she had been attacked three times in Oakland and took self-defense classes to protect herself in the future. Lyft drivers told me stories that ranged from personal development projects to affairs to vacations to illnesses. The guy at the financial assistance office at the hospital told me about his childhood traumas and shared his conspiracy theories, involving the Catholic Church, US government, and his neighbor. I listened. Sometimes the stories amused me. Sometimes the stories made me feel more human and more connected. I wasn’t always sure who had dropped the guard — me or these strangers. Unassumingly, these strangers and their stories were slowly chipping away my loneliness and helping me heal.
The injury, I later realized, made me vulnerable, puncturing my invisible protective shield and giving me admission into people’s personal lives. Sometimes, I just craved silence and was utterly uninterested in other people’s stories, even though I felt genuine kindness in each interaction. I stopped listening to music while walking — earphones reminded me of the attack and I felt claustrophobic with wires hanging over me and only one free hand. I also wanted to stay alert. Every time I heard someone walking fast behind me, I jerked and moved away from them. I didn’t like when people stood too close to me, especially when I couldn’t see their faces.
I decided to hide the incident and the injury from my mom and relatives in Georgia and my American family in Indiana, who had officially adopted me a few years after I stayed with them as an exchange student at a local high school. Unable to take care of me, my mom in Georgia would feel devastated. Thankfully, though, she was busy with her new job and couldn’t Skype with me, so I didn’t have to hide my splint. My dad in Indiana, who was in his eighties with health problems of his own, would insist on helping me, and I didn’t want that. More importantly, they each were still coping with losses: my mom with the death of my brother and grandmother and my dad with the loss of his wife, my American mom. The last thing I wanted was to cause them any additional pain.
After my brother’s death three years earlier, my mom became even more emotionally fragile than she had been. She was always a doting mother, overly protective and easily upset whenever my brother and I were in trouble or got hurt. After I left home at 17, my brother consumed most of my mom’s attention with his adventures. I had become her friend and helper, rarely confiding my struggles in her. The woman felt bad every time I did dishes, “I wish I were there to clean after you and cook for you, and spoil you.”
I wished she were there too. I wished my grandmother and my American mom were there too. They both taught me to be resilient, loved and cared for me unconditionally, encouraged me to pursue my dreams, and cheered me on through all my adventures. I wondered what they would do in my shoes. They would probably get on with things without feeling sorry for themselves. That’s what I decided to do. I also decided not to skip the hair conditioner anymore.
Everything took longer, and I quickly learned to be deliberate and patient with every action. It took longer to wash my face and brush my teeth. I got a new, thicker eye liner that I could hold steady and apply with my left hand. I couldn’t wear most of my long-sleeve clothes because the right sleeve wouldn’t go over the splint — so I limited my wardrobe options. I decided it was perfectly OK to use the same knife for butter and honey (even though normally it would drive me crazy to find traces of butter in honey and vice versa). I still made my bed every morning, even though it didn’t look perfect.
In a strange way, I also began to feel free — free from worrying about inconsequential things that used to take up so much of my time and energy. I became much more efficient, both in terms of my daily activities and my thoughts. I focused only on what mattered the most in any given moment. Between Saturday and Tuesday of the week of the attack I got back into a normal, my new normal, life.
Moments in Words 