I entered into a whole new relationship with my left arm when I accidentally broke its elbow. I immediately felt very protective of it, checked in with it a lot, and joked about it with friends. I even named it. So in certain ways, it was kind of like having a penis for the first time. 

Angela (pronounced with a hard "g" like Germany's Angela Merkel) was so named because I couldn't straighten her out to 180°. After my operation, when I brought her home, uncasted, from the hospital, she was asleep all the way down to my finger tips. This is because the doctors had intentionally left a tube in my shoulder that was dripping some kind of numbing fluid from a canteen-like vessel. I described this construct to my friend Lizanne when she called me to see how I was doing. Her response: "Numbing fluid? Canteens? What is this F-Troop?" You probably need to be at least 45-years-old to understand how perfect that is.

The drip thing lasted for two days, and Angela stayed comatose all the while, at one point swinging away from my body when I leaned over without my sling. The move was sudden, unexpected and unpleasant, and I impulsively made the scared reaction noise "Nyahhhhh!" made popular by The Three Stooges in the 1930's. Skeeved, I decided to sit down and have a talk with Angela about our future together. It went like this:

Me: Angela that move you just made scared the crap out of me and I was hoping that we could start working together as a team. I want you to know that I'm going to do everything in my power to make you as healthy and strong as my other arm, which shall go nameless. What are your thoughts? 

Angela:

That's when I realized that this whole healing thing was on me. Angela's unresponsiveness left me feeling alone and castrated. When the numbing drip ran out of anesthesia and Angela woke up, she was more like a crying child with hunger pangs who would only eat one thing, Oxycodone. After that, it took a natural disaster, in the form of a blizzard, to make her try something new. The snow and wind left us stranded in my house, going it alone for two days. And of course there was no way that Angela and I could work together to open the PUSH DOWN & TURN child-resistant bottle of narcotics. It didn't even seem like she was trying. So the next time she needed a fix, I gave her some Motrin that was lying around in a plastic sandwich bag. It seemed to do the trick.

Angela: That Motrin was okay, but I like Oxycodone better.

Me: I miss it too.

Since bonding over our shared love for the effects of narcotics, Angela and I have been working well together. Her range of motion has progressed from 90° to 160° and she's helping out with light typing, housework and hygiene. This kind of helpfulness is something a penis could never bring to the table, so I'm grateful for what I have. I don't really know why I was so keen to have one in the first place. It must have been the pain killers. 

I broke my elbow while looking for a comet the other night. Frolicking frozen on foot with friends, I entangled my legs with my pal Elizabeth's and went down fast and hard on the pavement. But it wasn't her fault. It was just a dumb accident. That said, Elizabeth can no longer appear in public without retribution. "I heard you broke Connie's arm," is what people are saying to her at the Stop and Shop.

I saw this blame game coming, and had there been no witnesses, I could have told people that I'd slipped on black ice. Since it was pitch black when I fell, I could even have claimed that it was black-on-black ice. Then most people wouldn't have cared about it:

"I don't know anyone who goofs around in the dark of night and slips on frozen pavement. So black-on-black ice doesn't affect me. People like Connie do this to themselves. Is anyone else feeling as self-actualized as I am?"

If it had gone down this way, Elizabeth would still be free to shop locally, which ironically is what the people who needled her out of town are always harping at everyone to do.

When I fell down that night, though my elbow seared with pain, it was the nausea that made me understand that I had broken my arm. Not wanting to ruin anyone's time, I stood up and brushed myself off. Brushing yourself off is code for "I couldn't possibly be hurt. Coat-smudge is my top priority right now."

Feeling a little crazy and registering vaguely the sweet and concerned "Are you okays?" coming from the mouths of my friends, I said I thought I'd be fine. 

"It hurts though," I said, "so I'm gonna turn around and find Bo.   Please keep going though or I'll be sad, okay?" They reluctantly agreed and Elizabeth and I turned back.

I was so relieved when my safety headlamp shone on Bo that I teared up in my mouth just a little. He was bringing up the rear, laughing with his friends. Bo is my husband and an orthopedic surgeon. I figured he would tap into my anguish in one or the other of those roles. Maybe even both.

"You're kidding, right?" he said when I told him that I had fallen, hurt my elbow and wanted to head back.

"She's not kidding," Elizabeth assured him. "She fell. It made a bad noise."

He inhaled through his closed teeth, "Ssssssss! Ouch! Sorry Sweetie!" And then, "But I still can't tell if you're kidding. You could just want to go home because you're cold."

At this point, I reached up with my good arm and pointed my headlamp straight down, witch-face style, only with overhead lighting.

"Okay, she's crying," he said to his friends. "I'm going with her." Then, to me softly, "I really thought you were kidding."

"It's okay," I said, relieved to have him on board. Then, cradling my throbbing arm, I turned and power-walked the half-mile or so back to the car, never looking back. Elizabeth was beside me all the way. When we got there, she asked, "Wait, where's Bo?"

"He probably had to pee," I said.

A few minutes later, he materialized. "Sorry, I had to pee," he said.