When I left the hospital, I thought the hardest part would be learning to walk again. I had no idea the real pain waiting for me had nothing to do with my injuries.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles. I knew because I’d counted them three times between painkillers, waiting for the discharge papers that would send me home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and orders to stay in bed for six weeks.
2 days earlier, a drunk driver had turned my Tuesday commute into a slow-motion crash of glass and metal. I was thirty five, alive, and, according to the surgeon, « very lucky. » Lucky felt like a strong word for someone who couldn’t reach her own water cup.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
