Chapter 13 - MY CAST COMES OFF
Four weeks after the bathroom, the cast came off.
My wrist looked wrong.
Thin.
Pale.
Stiff.
The orthopedist said healing was appropriate.
Physical therapy.
No miracle.
Grip strength would return gradually.
Rotation hurt.
I hated needing help with buttons.
Hair.
Grocery bags.
Trent had always called me stubbornly independent.
Now independence required asking people to open jars.
Humility arrived through ridiculous objects.
My therapist asked:
“What do you feel when you look at the wrist?”
“Angry.”
“At Trent?”
“Yes.”
“At yourself?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I lied at the hospital.”
There.
Then:
“Does the lie make the injury less his responsibility?”
“No.”
“Does it affect evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Those are different questions.”
I wrote that down.
Evidence.
May you like
Responsibility.
Different.
