For more details on my arm break check out the previous post.
For more details on my arm break check out the previous post.
I went thirty-four years without breaking anything. A cautious child, I was spared the coming of age fractures that rowdier children endured. The closest I came to serious injury was when my tooth chipped on the floor of a swimming pool change room at the age of eight.
My dog, Worf, knew something was wrong before I did. He looked back at me, concern on his fuzzy brown face. I dropped his leash but he didn’t run.
That’s when I felt the bone sticking at an odd angle just above my elbow. My arm is broken, came my surprisingly rational thoughts. Should I walk the few houses back to my house or knock on a neighbour’s door? And then I screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed.
Then I walked home. I whimpered “Come Worfie,” and he followed. I was in a daze by the time I reached my driveway. I feared I would faint before I reached the door. Unable to wrestle with our sticky doorknob, I pounded. When my husband, Adam, answered I told him I needed to go to the hospital.
Still wearing my coat and boots, I slumped in the nearest dining room chair, arm hanging limply at my side. Adam called my parents to watch our sleeping children and when they arrived we got in the car and drove to Joseph Brant Hospital. I felt every bump in the road shoot up my injured left arm.
I gingerly removed my coat for the triage nurses in emergency, then sat for a long time on a stretcher in the corridor, my concerned husband at my side. I was thirstier than I’ve ever been, but was not allowed water in case they had to put me under. Eventually I was given a morphine drip that made me sleepy then sent down the hall to have my arm X-rayed. Given where the break was, the X-ray tech was surprised I wasn’t screaming. But I’d been there for hours and there’s only so long one can scream.
I’m not sure how much time went by. Time passes differently in the hospital. Time passes differently when you’re in pain. Sometime later they put me to sleep and set my arm. It was a temporary fix and I still needed surgery. My arm hurt whenever I moved any part of my body.
Eventually I got moved into a room which I shared with an 83-year-old Italian-Scottish woman whose hip was being replaced. My friend Becca came and brought me Star Trek, a much better pain killer than whatever was in my IV. An orthopedic surgeon talked to me about the surgery he was going to do, which involved drills and saws and permanently installed titanium plates and screws.
On Sunday I was in surgery for at least four hours (my Mom says it was more like five). This passed for me in one slow eye-blink. When it was over my arm felt better than before, not awesome but better. It was secure in its part-hard part-soft cast. I no longer felt my bones grinding against each other whenever I moved.
It was the middle of the night when I got out of surgery so I slept over until Monday morning. I ate a piece of my Mom’s fudge despite being on a liquid diet. It was well worth it and I didn’t puke like the nurses said I might.
And now I’m home, with a long road of healing, recovery, and frustrating dependence ahead.I can eat whatever I want but I’m not very hungry. I fluctuate between feeling like Wonder Woman to feeling angry and sorry for myself.
My friends and family are awesome and are making this a less unpleasant experience than it could be. Especially my Mom, and my husband Adam, and my friends Becca and Kate. Also everyone who called me or sent me love on Facebook or sent me chocolate.
I couldn’t end this entry without thanking the hospital staff, particularly the nurses, who cared for me when I was in pain. Kim, Nicole, Shannon, Alina, Dosom, Clyson, William, Chrissie the X-ray tech, Dr. Qutab who spent all those hours putting me back together, and so many others whose names I didn’t catch. They did their jobs with kindness and caring and love. If you know any nurses, give them a hug for me. I would, but I only have one arm.
What I noticed first about the Lego movie is the texture of the pieces. This computer animated feature not only looks like it was made out of Lego, it looks as if it was made out of Lego that has been around a while, Lego that’s been sifted around a bin, that’s rubbed up against other pieces and become scratched and worn. This creates a nostalgic atmosphere that carries through into the story and characters. Featured is a nice mix of old and new Lego sets, including cameos by several licensed characters and an 80s spaceman whose helmet is cracked in that spot where Lego helmets always crack.
The film acknowledges that there are two different ways of playing with Lego, following the instructions and creating from your imagination. These two schools of thought provide the central conflict for the story. Rather than a movie that just happens to be made of Lego, the Lego movie is a film that could only be made out of Lego. So help me, I enjoyed it. It entertained me. Everything is awesome will be in my head forever.
But no matter how well-written and well-executed the Lego movie is, it can’t escape what it is and what it is is an extended commercial for Lego. I enjoy commercials as much as the next gal (they are the only reason to watch any major sporting event) and yet it’s irksome that an already multi-billion dollar company tricked my family into spending forty-two dollars plus tax and popcorn to watch an advertisement. (An awesome, awesome, advertisement).
But number two: not enough Wonder Woman. I was excited to see my favourite hero in the trailer, but her cameo doesn’t extend much beyond that clip, despite being voiced by the talented Cobie Smulders of How I Met Your Mother fame. Okay, it’s a small thing, but coupled with the film’s most awesomely strong female character Wyldstyle being pigeonholed into the role of the protagonist’s love interest, it made the feminist in me cringe. Do we even need a love interest in a kids movie? Maybe just this once we can have a woman in a movie who doesn’t have to defer to the men on screen all the time? No? Well, then at least there’s Unikitty to give us more female representation. Feminist face-palm.
If you’re still around after my mini-rant. I must reiterate that the Lego movie is worth seeing. You will be entertained thoroughly and leave the theater with an intense desire to break out your old Lego sets and create something amazing. Also you’ll have that song in your head. Consider yourself warned.
Back in the days before I was trying to promote myself as a professional writer, I had another blog where I wrote about anything I felt like, mostly rants about my life as a mother. I don’t talk a lot about my kids here as I am acutely aware that the demographic that would read my book has little crossover with the demographic that would be interested in a tongue-and-cheek piece about kindergartners. This morning, however, while I was recovering from the stress of getting my children ready for school, I thought to myself, “writing is a lot like parenting”. So if the childless and the non-writers could bare with me, I’d like to list some reasons why.
Nobody cares about your baby. You endured many a sleepless night getting that book in the form it is today, but a shot of the cover is about as interesting to your Facebook friends as a video of your son’s holiday concert. The more you post about your bundle of joy, the more your followers will wish that there was a middle finger alongside the thumbs up button.
Guilt. No matter how much of a helicopter parent you are, there will be a time when you neglect your children in some way. Maybe you’re twenty minutes late picking them up from school. Maybe you allow them to watch tv all weekend instead of spending quality time. Maybe you leave them chained to a rusty sink, held captive by a group of trigger happy gynoids, while you wrestle with a case of writer’s
Frustration. You keep writing and rewriting that novel but it never reaches the level of brilliance you envisioned. Your characters don’t listen to you. They spout clichés and digress into subplots just to give you more editing. Writers understand that their characters are real people because they fight with them every single day. The process feels very much the same as trying to convince a stubborn five-year-old to put her pajamas on.
The pay sucks. If you kill yourself marketing your novel to the masses you’ll have a small chance of becoming a household name. If you teach your children to carry a tune you’ll have a small chance of becoming a successful family singing group. Your chances of becoming the next JK Rowling are about the same as your chances of becoming the next von Trapp family. And unless you reach that level of success, you won’t make any money.
You wouldn’t change a thing. As difficult and thankless as your job is, you can’t imagine doing anything else. Your offspring, whether written or biological, represent your greatest achievement. You created something beyond yourself. You made a stamp on the world that will exist after you are gone. Maybe not everyone appreciates your efforts, but you don’t do it for the accolades. You do it for them, your children and your creations. They are the reason why you are here.
I said good morning to the yellow moon,
Glowing in the cold pale sky
Because you were already gone.
When I began this blog, I posted diligently every week. I talked about writing, science fiction, and anything else that appealed to my nerdy heart. In addition to my Wednesday musings, I also posted snippets of my writing every Saturday, and vlogged each Friday. All this in hopes that people would like me enough to purchase and read Wardroids, my first novel.
I know there are people who have blogs that are read, and books that are read and vlogs that are watched. People have followings. People have fans. Life is but a popularity contest and I am the shy girl in the corner. All my efforts have amounted to a mere whisper in a crowded room. I wish I knew how to shout.
And so this is the first post I’ve made since Halloween, when I became acutely aware that no one was reading, or watching. In my month of silence, no one e-mailed to ask me where I was, or commented demanding another post. I wish I could say I’ve gotten a great deal of work done on my second novel in the interim. Unfortunately, the voice of procrastination often reminds me that my work is futile. There are enough books in the world. No one is going to read mine.
Since I’m not above begging, please, please, check out Wardroids here on my publisher’s site. It’s available for order in print, as well as whichever ebook format you prefer. When you’re done, review it on Goodreads and tell all your friends, real and virtual. If you can’t afford the five dollars for my wares, you can still feed my starving ego by leaving a comment below, liking my Facebook page, or following me on Twitter.
I apologize for the shameless self promotion, but if it makes you feel any better it really doesn’t work.
J M Filipowicz
PS: Seriously, just leave a comment.