Different people respond
to stress in different ways. I hurt myself. I turn into this blundering,
woebegone Charlie Chaplin who bumps and bumbles through the day. I fall up the
stairs, tumble out of chairs, or ram into pieces of furniture. I spend a great
deal of time looking at my bruised body and mumbling, “Where did that come from?” I don’t know why I have
this response to stress, but it’s dogged me as long as I can remember.
I can spend an afternoon
showing off various scars that testify to the clumsiness that plagues my life
when my mind spins with preoccupation. Anything that generates heat becomes my
enemy. When calm, I can iron without worry, but the moment tension enters into
the room, the iron finds a way to fall against my arm, or I manage to “press”
one of my fingers. A little strain in my life means I must avoid the curling
iron unless I want to display my warrior markings.
About a month ago, I
strained my left arm. The day-in-day-out repositioning of Mom tugged at my
shoulder muscles and irritated my elbow joint. I’ve taken care to rest whenever
possible, iced down the sore muscles, and resorted to Tylenol (or wine)
whenever the discomfort peaked into the pain zone. My care paid off, too. Each
day I’ve ached less and enjoyed more movement.
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Pulling myself off the
injured list proved extremely short-lived. Yesterday, hands submerged in warm
sudsy bubbles, I absentmindedly washed dishes. My attention drifted to gazing
outside the window instead of paying attention to my task. I sensed David
leaving something on the counter, but didn’t pull from my wanderings enough to
register the fact that he’d set a pan, hot from the stove, into the pile.
Needless to say, I will soon have another scar to brag about.
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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