I am not referring to salt and vinegar potato chips, though they are a welcome snack. The salt that gives me a sense of being cared for is that dusting, or dumping, on the once icy paths I step gingerly on, trying not to fall. 

 

There was some spread on my own deck, though not enough to prevent me from slipping ten inches from the back door. Yelling, I limped to the car for an appointment, until intelligence over road my sense of responsibility and I used my one good hand to pull a u turn and come home. 

 

John took me to Urgent care, where a PA took an x-ray and wrapped it, too tightly, in an ace bandage. Her name and complexion suggested Indian descent. 

 

"I broke my wrist while hiking in the Himalayas," she told me. "It was a long walk down the mountain for medical care, which was sketchy." 

 

I calmed down somewhat, though I worried that my fingers, which I could not see, would turn purple and fall off. The next day I went to an orthopedic practice, where the doctor's eyebrows went up when she saw the wrapping, and quickly cut it off. My rings, too, were collateral damage of the swelling, and now lay like C's on a side table. 

 

The splint is much more comfortable, and the doctor assured me that the radius will heal by April. 

 

I had intended to slow down after the Marriage Conference, and I suppose God decided to support that goal. My schedule started to drop entries as fast as the flakes outside my window. For now, I am storing up empathy for the many people I know who have limited mobility, or long term pain. Which is a good thing to remember.