Two Weddings and a Fracture

*Note: This blog post is long. I have been off social media for over 8 weeks, and want to catch everyone up on what happened to me and how I am doing, and to hopefully cover so many of the questions that have been left in numerous comments that I don’t have the emotional and physical bandwidth to individually answer, although I wish I did. Questions such as, “What happened?”, “Why didn’t you attend your daughter’s wedding ceremony in a wheelchair?”, “Are you having surgery?”, “How are you meeting your writing deadlines when you only have one hand?”, “I heard you have other medical issues going on, what are they?”, and more. Thank you for your patience!

“I can do hard things.”

This was the phrase that I kept repeating to myself as our extended family planned for a trip to Barcelona, Spain. Now that might sound all fancy and dreamy—taking a summertime trip to Europe. But for this girl—who doesn’t mind flying in the United States for ministry, but who never went more than a half-hour away from home as a young girl except for a trip every year or so to the next-door state of Wisconsin to see my grandmother and aunt and uncle—travel has not been my thing.  I don’t like to use airplane bathrooms. I worry about getting sick so far away from home. I watch too much news and get nervous about scary things in the world.

I remember a little Spanish from high school and college, but I wasn’t looking forward to being in a country where I might not be understood if I needed help. (I’m an overthinker, I know.) However, the reason for this trip made me whisper a prayer for courage and then cheerfully start packing my things, ready to make the 20-hour trip from Michigan to Spain. And by things, I don’t mean just the normal things. I also pack every medicine known to man, Band-Aids, compression socks for the airplane, printed off MapQuest directions to all the places we need to go in case the cell phone towers go down and we’re lost, and even a list of everybody’s name and phone number in our family and close friends group, who were going to be on this trip. You never know when you might lose your cell phone and need to call someone. (Not trying to be a braggart at all, but do you know all of your family members’ cell phone numbers by heart? I do. Not because I am fantastic. But because I am an anxious person. I am not a very anxious person, just a regular anxious person. And also, #Overthinker)

The reason for our trip was our only daughter’s wedding. Well, actually her second wedding. Not to two different men, but to the same man twice. Let me explain.

She was supposed to get married in a surprise/sorta secret family and close friends only wedding planned for March 29, 2020. Instead, due to the unwanted guest of COVID-19, she got married in a friend’s backyard on March 22nd that year in North Carolina with about eight hours notice. Todd and I— nearly 12 hours away in Michigan and being instructed by authorities not to travel unless absolutely necessary — watched the ceremony on a Zoom call.  It wasn’t ideal, but we accepted it, grateful we could watch as she married a kind, smart, quiet, and godly man— someone she’s known for well over a decade and whom I’d been thinking for years that she should date.

We’d lost the deposits and spent the money allotted for her original wedding on the hurry-up wedding back in America. No budget for a redo. However, our daughter and her husband decided to spring for a renewal of their vows ceremony for their five-year anniversary. It would be a do over of the original planned wedding. I’d be there in my mother of the bride dress (finally!), and my college sweetheart would get to walk our only daughter down the aisle. It was going to be grand.

That was, until the first full day of our trip. That day, after the most delicious morning latte I’ve ever had at a cafe around the corner with my daughter and son-in-law, then a 40-minute round-trip walk to and from a fabulous outdoor market in the 90+ degree heat, some downtime just hanging with family— including our son, Spencer, and our other son, Mitchell, and his pregnant wife, Macey, and their three year-old Jasper, as well as our “sorta son”, Zelalem, and our godchildren-whom-we-consider-bonus-grandkids, Naomi and Ethan, …oh, and just after the only scheduled Spanish sightseeing thing I did— a lovely tour of the La Pedrera night experience—I decided to take a shower.

If only I’d stayed slightly sweaty.

When you hear of someone slipping and falling in the bathroom, you might envision the slippery floor making their feet go out from under them as they fall on their behind and maybe break a bone in their hand or forearm as they brace themselves for the fall. How I wish that had been the case. Instead, when stepping out of a cylinder-shaped glass shower, while being extremely careful—because, as I said, I’m an anxious sort of gal—disaster ensued.

(*Trigger warning: do not read the next two paragraphs if you get upset by descriptions of physical pain)

My right foot stepped onto the thin, kind-of-towel-like bathmat just fine, and I thought my left foot did as well. However, a small part of my left foot hit the tile floor at the edge of the bathmat (I think my heel?) and the next thing I knew, I was airborne sideways with my left side of my body pointed down toward the floor. Immediately, I felt (and heard) my left upper arm bone being snapped in two by the metal reinforcement of the shower door jam on my left. My entire left upper body then slammed into a tile wall that was just a few feet from the shower door, and I watched my left shoulder stay stationary while the rest of my arm became a human windshield wiper as it swiped the wall from the far left upward and over to the right to the right, and then finally hung down toward the floor.

The next thing I remember is my left hip, knee, and ankle hovering in the air and then slamming on the floor, but somehow my right leg was back inside the shower and my pelvis really hurt. This shower had a unique bottom entry that you stepped over to get into and out of the shower, with a glass portion that had a metal bar at the top that was about 12 inches tall. (Envision stepping over a short glass wall to get into the basin of the cylinder-shaped shower) We all were careful as we stepped in and out of the shower because it was a little awkward to navigate. Well, my poor pelvis was wedged between that step-over piece and the place where the right-hand door jam met it. So, my right leg was inside the shower, and my left leg was outside the shower, along with the rest of my body. After what seemed like both a blink and an eternity, my flight through the air that banged me up badly was over. I screamed out for help.

Not sure what I thought my family could do when they heard me holler… SINCE I HAD LOCKED THE STUPID BATHROOM DOOR! And I don’t mean a dainty lock on a door handle that can easily be popped open from the other side with a coat hanger. This was an old building, and this lock was an interior deadbolt that was just above eye level. I panicked because I knew my family could not get to their screaming mom/grandma/wife.

In a blink, they’d all gathered in the hallway. I’d somehow managed to hold my broken left wing to my chest with my good right arm, and was now cross legged on the floor.(I still can’t remember how I did that) My daughter— who after a stressful but exciting season of moving her salon to a bigger location—and who was so looking forward to enjoying this long-awaited trip during a weekend of making no decisions since she had a fantastic wedding planner there handling it all—kicked into manager mode. As the oldest of the siblings, she was once again problem-solving along with her with her brothers and others, figuring out what to do.

She had everyone gathered in the hallway be quiet while she asked me important questions. Like, did I hit my head? Was I bleeding? Could I stand up to unlock the door?

Could I stand up and unlock the door?!?!

Have you ever seen those viral videos going around where they show someone over 50 sitting cross legged on the floor and then standing up without the use of their arms? Well, I knew that was my only option—and I also knew that I was in absolutely no shape to do that. (Meaning I was in no shape to do that because of my busted arm, and I simply was not in good enough physical shape to do that at all.)

I’m not sure I’ve ever cried out to God like I did that moment. I knew he was going to have to supernaturally help me to somehow stand up. I noticed out of the corner of my right eye a small teakwood table that had washcloths rolled up on it that was maybe 2 or 3 feet high. Using all my strength I could in my legs, I pushed up from the cross-legged position while cradling my broken left arm with my right one, and I touched my right elbow to the table for just a second or two, trying to use it to help me stand as I let go of my now swinging broken arm. Simultaneously, I stretched my right arm as high as I could and unlocked that dead-bolted door and then took three steps back to sit down on the toilet.

Although I’m sure the brief touch of my elbow on the table helped me stand, I also felt like I was being supernaturally lifted up. (The first of many times I’ve felt supernatural lifted up since this happened. More on that another day.)

My husband came in. The rest of the family was still in the hallway concerned. I was worried that my screams and the commotion had awakened the three children. Todd helped me get a T-shirt over my neck and around my body without putting my arms through the sleeves so I could keep holding my broken arm with my good arm. He pulled a pair of shorts on me as well. My daughter came in to further help while the rest of my kids waited to see what happened.

An ambulance had been called, and I was so relieved when I heard its wail wafting through the air. “They’re here!” I exclaimed as I envisioned the sweet and hopefully somewhat-fluent-in-English Barcelona first responders who were going to come up to the second floor to somehow navigate my busted up and hobbling self down to street level. It was only then that I was told that what I was hearing wasn’t the wail of the siren. It was three year-old Jasper crying as, between sobs, he uttered something about Grandma Kit’s hurting arm. My heart sank. I wanted to run to hold him tight and give him his favorite mango fruit bites, but I could not.

After a quick ride in the ambulance with my husband and the first responders, (whom I kept telling how kind and careful they were being to me while also kicking myself that I couldn’t remember how to say that in Spanish! )we arrived at the hospital. After 14 hours sitting upright on a paper-thin and lumpy mattress in ER with evaluations and x-rays, and not a single sip of water or ice chip—not even a pillow, I was released. X-rays showed the bone snapped clear through, just a couple inches below my shoulder socket and at a diagonal, but it was a clean break. The emergency room physician spoke enough English to tell me he thought surgery was most definitely needed. I had the option of getting it at the public hospital that I was in, transferring to a private facility nearby, or perhaps making a very careful and scary trip home to get care in America.

(Now, here comes just one of many “just happens” incidents during this now over 8-week long ordeal.) Our daughter has a client/friend of hers, turned dear friend of our entire family, Andrea, who is a medical anthropologist and who “just happened” to be at the exact hospital I was now sitting in just two weeks earlier doing research. She has a childhood friend in Spain who is a surgeon. But not any old surgeon. He is a top orthopedic surgeon who practices near Barcelona. We were connected to him and after he was sent a snapshot of my passport, he was able to obtain a copy of my x-rays. He told me I would definitely need surgery and should stay there to have it done since Spain far surpasses the United States in such medical care. They are sixth in the world and the US ranks in the low 30s. (This matches up with my experience at that Barcelona hospital. I found the medical care that I received to be excellent. The accommodations, however, were bare-bones. I just may start a fundraiser to buy fluffy pillows and an ice machine for them.)

This surgeon also mentioned he thought I could make the trip home safely if I wanted to do the surgery back home, although we knew it would not be at all pleasant due to the motion that would happen during takeoff, landing, turbulence, and the potential of my arm being bumped in its sling by passengers. Although I was on painkillers, any leaning forward, backward, or to the side caused pain at the break point (and still does, but not as intense). This pain made me wish for easier days. You know, like that time I was at the height of labor before pushing out my nearly 10-pound youngest child. That pain seemed mild compared to what I was experiencing.

I won’t give long details of the trip home. (That is a scary and suspenseful story, yet one that was full of “it just so happens” God-sightings everywhere, and even a couple moments of much needed comic relief. I will share it some day in the future—maybe here or in one of my speaking messages, or in a book. Who knows?) But I will say that some very kind and generous friends of ours, whom God has blessed financially through their family’s business (and who would be so upset if I ever gave them credit), paid to upgrade us to business class so I could be in a roomy pod where my arm would be protected. My daughter made arrangements for the flight change. No longer would we be going from Barcelona to Atlanta and then home to Detroit. We would go to Paris and then straight to Motown.

Per the ER doctor’s orders, I was not allowed to lean back in the pod, but had to sit upright the entire way home with my slinged arm dangling downward— “Like your elbow is a yo-yo on a string that is standing still”, he finally was able to communicate to me in English—in hopes the bones would pull apart and then go closer back into alignment, though I still would be facing surgery.

The first plane ride to Paris was about two hours. From Paris back to Detroit was just over nine hours. Takeoffs and landings were painful and turbulence also made me wince and cry, but God got us home. I was never so glad to be back in The Mitten State, ready to make the hour-and-and-a-half ride back to our tiny town. That part of the trip was easier, but still rather bumpy and painful since Michigan potholes are not fun to go over. (Sidenote: We are known as the pothole capital of the Midwest. There is even an ice cream named Michigan pothole! It is delicious. Try it sometime.)

Of course, all of this meant I missed my daughter’s wedding AGAIN since I was in a wheelchair and only walking with great difficulty a few steps to the bathroom while using a cane, due to my banged up knee. I was also doped up on painkillers, (thankfully the pain was only really bad the 20 minutes before it was time to take the next dose), and the lovely venue was just not suited for a doped-up mother of the bride on wheels. Even if it had been somehow possible to get me there without too much trouble and have someone maneuver me around, I would not have wanted to draw attention to my broken armed and brokenhearted self. My daughter was to be the star of the show at night, flanked by her fiercely loyal and loving siblings, siblings-in-law and extended family, and surrounded by a community of friends who saved up pennies and airline points and carved out time in their schedules to be with her on this special occasion.

So, it was decided that I would stay back at the hotel. That’s right! A hotel. I almost forgot that part. There was no going back to the Airbnb and navigating stairs, so some very kind and generous friends of our daughter, (who also would not want me to say who they are), used their travel points to put us up for two nights in a beautiful 5-star Barcelona hotel. What?! Your girl usually books hotels for travel at one of the major chains that has a number in the title. You know, Motel 6, Super 8, or I get a discounted room at the good-old Holiday Inn or Hampton. Someone else (an immediate family member who would also want to remain anonymous) covered the remaining three days in this hotel, but in an even bigger suite with a living room area. There I could sit and look out over the beautiful town of Barcelona while everyone else enjoyed tours, cooking classes, welcome dinners, and such.

I tried desperately to rest up from the ordeal. I’d already endured two nights with zero sleep: the first was on Monday, the day of travel, and the second was on Wednesday, the night it all went down. I was exhausted, in pain, and emotionally distraught. However, all of my kids took such good care of me and each one was allowed one-on-one time with me in the emergency room to talk. Conversations that I will never forget.

My husband mostly watched me, but others took turns such as my son-in-law’s cousin, (whom I barely knew but who is now my newest bff) who sat with me during the welcome dinner so Todd could attend. A long-time ministry partner’s daughter, who is close friends with our daughter, came to sit with me one afternoon so that Kenna (who was watching me so her dad could attend one of the activities), could take a bubble bath in the hotel.

And then there was the wedding itself. My selfless sister-in-law (Todd’s sister), who has been a physical therapist for over 40 years, stayed with me during the wedding and taught me how to walk with a cane. Since my left knee had a deep bone contusion and was really hurting, I could not walk without a lot of pain. I had no idea that breaking my arm would also mean I would need that cane around the clock for nearly 4 weeks. And I still need it in the middle of the night, first thing in the morning, and occasionally during the day, but not constantly. (More about that in a few.)

She and I sat and watched my husband walk our girl down the aisle thanks to her daughter—my niece—who FaceTimed us through the ceremony and at important parts of the reception. I was so grateful for each glimpse of the festivities that I spied on that screen. For our reception meal—also paid for by the generous friends— we ordered room service, and I picked at my food because I really had no appetite. However, surprisingly, my heart was at peace. Totally at peace. I knew none of this surprised God at all and somehow, I was right where I was supposed to be. I physically missed two weddings, but I gained so much spiritually through the whole experience. I’m still soaking in the lessons and pondering all the ways my faith in Jesus has been stretched and grown deeper, as well as how this heartbreaking, yet somehow holy incident has affected people I love in positive ways too..

Now, for some bright spots.

I mentioned the reception. What fun it was to see our daughter dancing up a storm wearing my own wedding dress that had been remade into an adorable vintage looking dancing dress for her to enjoy the night. Isn’t that fun?

Another bright spot. When my kids and their spouses— (I don’t like wording it that way, because I consider them all my kids)— had to adjust plans, everyone was so cooperative, caring for their mom—and their dad, who was now thrust into the role of caregiver. (For a little Spanish flare and for fun, I stopped calling him Todd and now refer to him as Enrique. I have no idea if that is the Spanish equivalent of the name Todd, but I like how it sounds.)

Arrangements were made for the bridal party’s getting ready time to be switched from the Airbnb to our hotel room. This way, I was able to see everyone get their hair and makeup done and I was even treated to a little bit of make up and some French braids myself, even though I felt like nothing was ever going to cute-ify me since I was then on day number four of wearing the same T-shirt, with my Spanish sling cradling my arm close to my chest— a sling which, unlike in America, went underneath my shirt. I was not allowed to wear anything other than a thin T-shirt over it.

I was able to stand without my cane long enough for just a couple pictures to be snapped of me placing my mom’s family pearls around my daughter’s neck with one arm.  This was an attempt to replicate a picture of my own mom— who used both of her arms to put them around me on my wedding day. (Sorry, no photo. Our albums are in the basement and I cannot do stairs yet) I choked back the tears. (OK. I really didn’t. Once the bridal party left, I cried my ever-loving eyes out.)

My recovery has been slow. I wish I could say I’m just recovering from a minor break in my arm. But I was told that the humerus is the second hardest bone to break in your body and it is only usually broken during a car accident or severe fall, such as off a ladder or down the side of a mountain. I was also told that my deep knee bone contusion is something NFL players usually suffer from and it was going to take at least a month to heal. (So, it’s like I was an injured NFL player who also got in a car wreck? Fun times.)

The first Monday back after the trip, I tried to push through the pain and try to get things back to normal. At that point, the pain was mostly manageable with drugs, so I hopped on Instagram to like comments from hundreds of people who had left their well wishes. I was doing it so fast that Instagram thought I was a bot and shut me down. I also tried answering emails on my phone with one hand, but within 48 hours, my body screamed at me to stop.

An avalanche of other issues started heading my way. I began having sudden and scary spells of blurred vision, slurred speech, and feelings of losing consciousness that seemed to come out of nowhere. There was a trip to the ER for what I feared was a high blood sugar incident. I was afraid the trauma physically and emotionally had thrown my body into diabetes as I was told it could. I don’t have blood sugar issues, but it runs in my family. My blood sugar is typically low. However, my sugar was extremely high when I got to the ER, most likely because I had not been eating much and was sipping on juice and coconut water around the clock since I thought these scary spells were because my sugar was going low, when in fact, the exact opposite was happening.

When I made it to the ER, my blood pressure was 173/103 and the attending staff was extremely concerned. My blood pressure also typically runs low—around 110/70 so this was very uncharacteristic. It finally came down to 160/90-something, (I don’t remember exactly). The high blood pressure was attributed to the anxiety that I was feeling, not only from the pain and emotional trauma, but because I had some deadlines in July and August that I was simply not going to be able to meet and, being a people pleaser, I hate to disappoint others. (Thankfully, my husband kept reminding me that I didn’t take a hammer and break my own arm. This was an accident, and I should not feel bad for my inability now to work with either my body or my brain.)

After the ER tests ruled out diabetes, (since my A1c had actually gone down four points since my last test and was no longer in the “slightly elevated but not diabetic range”, but was within the normal range), I was sent home. The excessive thirst and frequent need to use the bathroom that I was also experiencing during the sugar incident went away. However, I still had incidents of sudden blurred vision, slurred speech, feelings of extreme weakness and lightheadedness, and two different times I did begin to lose consciousness. Thankfully, both times were when I was sitting and my husband was with and quickly put his head on my forehead so I did not fall forward. If it wasn’t blood sugar, what was it this time? And so back into the city I went.

This time I was tested for thyroid issues. Also negative. I was sent home. These scary episodes continued. But I did notice that they were usually right on the heels of periods of pain at the sight of the break. Whenever I had to do an exercise of removing my arm from my sling and stretching out the muscles, or when I’d been sitting for a long time and needed to stand, or when a bumpy car ride caused great pain, often these scary, near-fainting incidents would occur. The pain during such times is not chronic and constant. It is sudden and sharp. It feels like someone is stabbing my upper arm all around with pairing knives and there’s also an electrical feeling to it. But it usually only lasts for 5 to 10 seconds, and then it is gone. (Doc says it is normal for a complete break of such a big bone.)

Finally, four weeks after the break, and about three weeks after I started experiencing these spells, two different medical professionals diagnosed these incidents as vasovagal syncope episodes. (Now there’s something you can plug into Dr Google to understand.) They are getting less intense and less frequent, and I’ve not had one now in over a week. (Yay!)

Additionally, I have another fun condition that I am dealing with. At 3 weeks and one day from the break, it was thought I had developed a deep vein thrombosis/blood clot. (I have lost complete track of the date or what day of the week it is through all of this, but I can always tell you how many weeks and how many days it has been since the fall. ) And so, yep. You guessed it! Another trip back into the city to the hospital to test for that.

Thankfully, the doppler ultrasound showed there was no DVT. But something was still causing swelling in my left thigh, as well as stiffness and severe numbness in both my feet and my left calf, especially in the night. It is what is causing me to still walk with a cane in the middle of the night when Todd helps me use the bathroom and also the first hour or two in the morning. And I’m telling you, I walk like a 98-year-old woman. So slow. So stiff. My left thigh is quite swollen and feels like dead weight when I walk after laying in the recliner, trying to sleep. But I’m rocking the compression socks during the day and trying to elevate my feet at night when I sleep, (per doctor’s orders) which is sadly, not very often.

The accident was July 2 and for the entire month of July I rarely slept more than 2 to 4 hours per night. A couple times I only slept 1.5 hours and twice I did not sleep at all. It’s slowly getting better and now I am getting more like 4.5 to 5.5 hours of sleep per night— with three glorious nights of about six hours, although not all at once. I wake up often and it takes me a while to fall back to sleep. The difficulty is that I have to stay sitting mostly upright to help those bone halves get into alignment, but yet I need to also elevate my feet due to these circulation issues. So my body is kind of like a V. (V—as in Very uncomfortable.) And also, those stabbing pains happen every so often in the night. All of this does not make for the best sleeping arrangements, but I’m very grateful we were able to find a used electric recliner/lift chair, which is making things much better than trying to do this in a bed, which was not working at all.

(Oh, and if you want to know this numbness/nerve condition that is this latest diagnosis in my repertoire of current illnesses, it is meralgia paresthetica— basically a compromised system of nerves on my left side of my body due to me having to keep my arm so still, which means that side of my body has been very sedentary, and it is affecting my circulation.)

As for things moving forward, I’ve seen two different orthopedic surgeon specialists. Both saw that the bones had moved somewhat back into alignment, much better than the Barcelona break in the ER room. (Maybe the turbulence followed by the Michigan potholes actually turned out to be something good? Whatever it was, it was totally from God. ) So, surgeons suggested we try the conservative approach, which is natural healing before jumping to surgery.

We decided to go with the second opinion, an orthopedic specialist at Michigan State University. He was the first one to point out the fact that—miraculously—I have no nerve damage in my left arm, wrist, or fingers. The severity of the fracture, and the location where the break is, should’ve caused me to lose feeling in at least one of my fingers, possibly making it no longer work. This surgeon has had great success with this type of injury in avoiding surgery. And honestly, he was more concerned about surgery posing the risk of blood clots and nerve damage from a nicked nerve during the procedure than he was about me possibly not gaining full range of motion or as much strength as I had before.  If we went the route of surgery, it could make the bone stable and maybe give me better results as far as range of motion and ability to lift things in the future. However, my ministry/writing/work is done a lot with my hands through typing, and he was more worried about surgery being detrimental to that.

If I were in my 20s and working at a job where I daily had to lift 40 pounds over my head or something, then he would recommend surgery. But for my occupation, it is not needed. I realize I might not have entire range of motion or the strength I had before, but I will be able to hold my baby granddaughter coming in October. (OK. So maybe I’ll hold her on my good side first for a while.) And so, we will keep watching and waiting, returning for x-rays every so often to check for alignment, soft tissue, and calcification/bone growth. So far, no calcification has happened, but that is totally normal for my break and my age. The next appointment is September 2^nd.  Could I ask you to pray? I would be so thrilled for a good bone alignment and for them to see the bones beginning to calcify. I’d love you to join me in that prayer.

We are so grateful for Todd’s unpaid leave from GM, which runs out Thursday, September 4^th when he must return to the assembly line making Camaros and Cadillacs instead of being “Enrique”, the caregiver/cleaner/cook/cheerer-upper here at home. That man is a saint. A real saint. A “willing to learn to put his wife’s hair in a ponytail, provide for her daily personal needs, make a bang-up tuna salad for her lunches, and rub her feet with lavender oil until she falls asleep” sort of saint.

Being an author who is only able to use one hand (with a carpal tunnel brace on it to hopefully prevent that from happening, I don’t need any more illnesses, thank you very much), this recovery has been very rough. I am voice typing things that I must get to my publisher or other places, but it often looks like someone spilled a can of alphabet soup on the page and it needs to be cleaned up. Thankfully, my amazing friend Kimberly has graciously offered to read over my spilled-soup pages, making them presentable before I turn them in (Kimberly gives the most wonderful biblical encouragement and you should totally follow her on Instagram. Trust me. She is a gem.)

Also, a huge shout out goes to my assistants—admin Miriam, and graphics creator Halle—for  answering emails, talking to event coordinators to let them know, I’m not able to speak and to help suggest replacements for me, jumping on publishing meetings, and keeping up on a few things that I already had scheduled on social media. (Two giveaways in conjunction with my Proverbs 31 Encouragement for Today devotions.) I had one more devotion to turn in for 2025 and Shelby— the sweet and very pregnant devotions manager— helped figure out how a few tweaks to prior piece I’d written could turn into that devotion, which will announce a Christmas resource from Proverbs 31 that I can’t wait to tell you about. She also sent Chick-fil-A cards from the devotions team, which I’m not gonna lie, Enrique was happy about.

The publishing team on my next project (that I can’t announce yet, but I can give you a hint— I will have lots of material for that book after what I’ve been through. Here’s a further hint: my co-authors are Ruth Schwenk & Amber Smith.) Wait. Where was I? Oh, yes. my Zondervan team has been so understanding, sending me caring cards and clever things for people who can only use one arm, like this. They also extended my August 20^th manuscript deadline by a month, or even a little more if I need it. They have also been emailing a few times a week just to see how they can pray and to keep tabs on my progress.

And the fine folks at Lifeway— where I write three monthly columns for two different magazines — cared much more about how I was doing than about me meeting my deadlines. They also sent me a clever care package, full of goodies and helpful items, such as a skinny plastic scratcher so I could itch places I cannot easily reach with one arm, as well as a cover for my sling when I shower. They graciously offered to reprint an old column from a few years ago if I couldn’t write a new one by my next deadline. In fact, they even mentioned that they could help me write my columns by me dictating words to them on the phone as they typed. Amazing. This all has made my anxiety level come down. I don’t deserve such kind and caring professionals to do ministry with.

OK, now two final things… No three. Two are kind of funny and one is just a little boost to my own spirit. You will see why.

Number one: There was a certain water bottle I’ve been wanting to buy. Trendy. Fun colors. Able to be filled with one hand without taking off the lid because of its a nifty push-button operation. Great for the gym and refilling at water stations. I ordered it two weeks before my trip. Then I instantly felt guilty and sent it back because I already have two other old water bottles that work just fine— one  for the house and one for the car. They are a little banged up and have an old-fashioned screw top where you need to use two hands. But still. No need for this trendy guy. HOWEVER… now that I only have one arm that works, I totally can justify my tri-colored Owala water bottle since I can open it, refill it, and close it all with one hand. A far away friend sent us an Amazon gift card to get anything we needed to help my recovery. So, I chose this bottle in a fun color and I no longer have guilt due to unnecessary water bottle purchases. (If you’d like to be twinsies with me— and you truly do need a new water bottle, just not want one—here is the link.)

Secondly, I had to laugh when the first time I tried hopping on email to check things as normal,( which now I am SO not doing. Instead, I have an auto response on and I’m letting my team check email). Anyhow, guess what email I received? A congratulatory message from Delta Airlines that my recent trip to Barcelona now meant I’ve accumulated enough miles to be silver medallion status, which means I can check two bags for free each time I travel and, on rare flights when there is an upgraded seat that is not taken, a lotto system might choose me. This was fun news, although I don’t recommend your physical condition mimicking that of an injured NFL player, who was also in a car accident, just so you can bring more luggage on a trip.

And finally. My mama moment of, “I told you so.”

I love my family. My husband. My kids. Really I do. But one thing I don’t love, is how they all make fun of me for being a worry wart/overly cautious/slightly anxious mom traveler. They all nonchalantly grab their phones and their luggage and head off on adventures. Not this girl. I anticipate what might happen and prepare ahead. Or should I say over-prepare ahead. Remember, I’ve got my MapQuest directions, everyone’s phone number, and all the medicines. I am prepared when I travel.

And so, here it comes… The moment that proved I was justified in all my over-preparedness as an “it might happen” mama.

When I was lying on that bathroom floor, hearing my kids try to navigate this serious situation, I heard my daughter say to one of her brothers (or maybe her husband?) that he needed to call 911. From inside the bathroom, they heard their mom stop moaning and groaning just long enough to shout. “No! No!” They answered back that it was obvious I was hurt and needed an ambulance, so why was I telling them no? It was then that I ceased my moaning just long enough to utter through my pain…

“No! No! Don’t call 911. It’s 112!  In Spain the emergency number is 112!”

Yep. I had memorized it. More because I was worried about something happening to one of my family members, like Macey going into early labor or an incident with the apple of Kit and Pop’s eye, three year-old Jasper. What would I do in such a situation? I know what I would do. I would call the emergency number, so I needed to know if it was the same as America. It is not. It is 112. In fact, it is 112 throughout all of Europe. There is your travel tip of the day.

OK. That’s all for now. I will share more in the future as I feel led, especially the lessons that God has been teaching me through all of this. (They are on prayer, pride, patience, social media use, true friendship, and spending time on things that don’t matter ) Also, I can’t thank all of you enough out there who have left comments, who have prayed, who have emailed me Starbucks cards and Panera cards, who have given suggestions for podcasts and books to read. I have the best community ever and I treasure each one of you. And slowly, but surely, I am going to write all the thank you notes and also read back through all the comments left on the posts that my assistant put up while I was on this nine-week break from social media. I only posted once after I was hurt, and once when I returned home. My phone was then taken away from me by my husband and a few close friends, who are rather bossy but also care about me and my mental state through all of this. My phone was to be only to be used when I needed to communicate with family, close friends coming with all the casseroles or just sit with me so todd can have a break, or to email crucial publishing and speaking contacts. Best. Decision. Ever.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I pray today for you is filled with the things and people you love and that it ends with a hot, steamy, relaxing shower before bed. Just be sure to put down some of those vintage daisy decals that keep you from slipping, and also go get yourself a large, industrial, hospital-approved non-skid bathmat.

Back-from-Barcelona blessings,

Karen , a.k.a. Grandma Kit