6.19.18

We need groceries. I am pretty sure that every other mom and wife is much more organized than I am and that they never do these last-minute runs to the grocery store. I tell myself that I should be better organized as I  find myself zipping 18 miles down the interstate to the local grocery store. 

I put my car in park, grimacing as the forward motion of sliding the shifter in P sends a circular pain across my ribs and back. I am reminded of my mom.  I am told she was a very respectful child, one that never spoke out of turn. She was loved and well disciplined.  While she didn’t back talk, she became known amongst her Uncles for making faces. When she wasn’t happy with the situation or decision she didn’t speak her mind like so many kids today. Instead, she would make faces. Sometimes her tongue would protrude in disgust only to be retracted just before one of her parents would look her way. Sometimes she would glare and wrinkle her nose. If she was agitated, she was known to do all three. This continued until she earned herself a reputation unbeknownst to her parents. Then one day her Uncle Raymond whispered in her ear “You shouldn’t do that in case your face should freeze and you have to wear that expression for the rest of your life.” Apparently, my mother was aghast and refrained from making distasteful faces from that point on.

Uncle Raymond was a wise man and knew many things. And, just in case he was right about freezing facial expressions, I try to keep mine neutral as I open the car door and slowly exit my car.  8 weeks have passed since cow #332 attacked me, and then my husband in the barn during evening chores. 8 weeks post incident and I still hurt. A follow-up appointment revealed that the ER didn’t catch a broken bone in my ankle. If they had, I would be getting my cast off, rather than limping along in this brace.

I pull open the grocery store door and procure a cart. The acts of pushing and pulling heavy things still hurt but not nearly as much as they did a few weeks ago.  I am determined to convince myself that I will be well soon and back to normal. Physically at least.  But in the most honest parts of my soul, I have to acknowledge that I am disappointed. I am sad. I hurt, and sometimes I toy with the “D” word. I feel that if I don’t actually say or think the word “depressed” that I won't actually encounter it. Sometimes I question the wisdom of avoidance.    I am tired. I’m tired of aching. I’m tired of the sharp pains of healing ribs. I’m tired of the lightning bolts of pain that course through my whole body when I sneeze. I’m tired of asking for help. I’m tired of being left out and of being told to sit down or let someone else do it. But most of all I feel guilty.

I feel guilty. There, I said it. I feel guilty that I feel bad, physically and emotionally. That is not to say that I am not grateful for every breath in and out. I remind others and myself that it could have been so much worse. It could have. Instead of 3 broken ribs, cuts and bruises and now a fractured ankle… it could have been worse.  The whole event seems unreal, but I know, logically, it could have been worse. I could have had more injuries, my husband could have been severely injured, I could have died.  I wonder how many times in my life I have exclaimed “Oh my gosh, I could have died laughing” or of embarrassment or of anger.  It is somewhat unreal to use those words in the literal sense.

“Suck it up,” I tell myself and begin to push the cart down the produce aisle. “Excuse me,” I say as I steer around a man studying the pickles. “No problem,” he says as he straightens up and looks at me “Oh Leslie! How ARE you? I heard about the accident”. I’m fine. I really am fine, I’m tired too, but I don’t say that. We chat for a minute. I am resoundingly reminded and enveloped in the kindness and genuine concern of small town people.  I am thankful, and I am grateful.

I pass the fresh pizzas on my right, grab a jar of hot jalapeños from the endcap and make a hard left by the jello. I meet another person I know who says the bruises on my face are much better. I smile and agree because I am not sure what else to do. The rest of the canned goods section is pretty uneventful. I add crushed tomatoes and tomato paste to my cart and swiftly round the corner, past Gluten Free, and into the baking aisle. I am studying the spices, looking for orange flavoring, when I hear a lady whisper loudly to her preteen daughter “That’s the lady who got into it with a cow on their farm.” I’m not embarrassed or upset. The whole reason I told my story was so others would benefit, learn and hopefully avert a similar situation.  I move past sugar and look for almond flour, but they don’t have any.

In front of the milk fridge, I hear two people discussing a recent farm accident that left a man dead. The man and his wife sat in the pew in front of ours at church.  We saw them, we knew them, we attended their kids’ weddings, we worked cattle together. They were our friends.  My heart breaks. I look away, fearful that my fellow mourners will see the guilt oozing out of my  placidly and pleasantly arranged facial expression.  I know that someday I will be whole and feel good and the pain will be but a memory. The lives of our friend and his family will never be the same.  I am not angry or bitter about our accident, but I feel guilty for being so affected by it.  I nod at my neighbors and reach for sour cream before escaping to the ice cream section.  This is the last aisle. Just past the bread and chips and I will be checking out.

Milk in hand, the lady from the dairy section calls out “Leslie, how are you?” She is down at the far end of the aisle, by the frozen yogurt. I am standing in front of the chips. Three or four people are between us. “Good! Better all the time” I say. It’s the truth. I hope she doesn’t continue to ask questions. I am so grateful for the love and attention and concern but, well, other people have more significant issues than me.  She skillfully maneuvers her cart past the frozen veggies on the right, lifts pop tarts off the shelf on the left  and is suddenly just one cart behind me in line.

“I am retiring!” she announces.  I know her history. She has been a hard worker all her life. She deserves it, and she is excited about it. I am happy for her. She continues excitedly “Life is too short. You have to do things while you can and while you are able. Think about last week” she references the farm accident. No need for names as there isn’t a person in the store who is unaware “it happened so fast. It could have been anyone” her tone grows more serious, and she looks at me pointedly “It could have been me or” her voice drops even lower “it could have easily been you.”

Big sigh.

I remember Uncle Raymond’s warning and I smile. God has a plan for me. I am sure of that. I am also sure that I encounter people every day whose problems and heartaches are not blogged about or known by their neighbors. I know how much a kind word; a concerned look and a thoughtful comment have meant to me.  How quickly my body heals is less up to me than how fast I heal inside. God makes something good come out of everything wrong.  Random acts of kindness inspire kindness.

Life is a gift, and when its wrapped in kindness, it’s called a present.

Share yours daily.

 Leslie Kemmet