'Broken Wing' by Lucy (Helpline Volunteer)

There’s a place I know. It’s a crossroads. No marker, finger post or sign but we, the locals, know. I have seen her in all the seasons, from frost-white shawl and stone-hard soil to snow-melt streams and heather’s bloom.

I was broken here.

I didn’t see it coming, but all the signs were there.

My run: a brief escape, an interlude between the airtight rooms and weeks of waiting. I snatched an hour, greedy with need. A time, I thought, for each to gather, rest, regroup.

Wind and space graze my skin, breath life upon my face and fill my lungs, familiar hillsides greet me with their oblivious stare. This my place of return, my secret, my hit.

Back up the track, stronger now, buoyed by working muscles and giddy with space, the rush of calm flooding my veins.

I see the woods, the hint of gate, turn right along the narrowing path. Eight minutes left. The homeward strait.

Approaching, fast, I’m taken down. Light dustings of snow fooled my feet, laid a trap over puddle of ice. Look out! Slow down! A thud. Too late.

The pain is sharp, a jagged flash. A pause… a beat… a nauseous lurch.. before
I’m back
Returned to rhythm
Buoyed by shock.

xxxxxxxx

Ready? He asks, impatience shown by the cap in his hand, the waistcoat zipped. I’m late, I’ve kept him waiting, stolen time.

Yes, I say, an instant switch, slowing my breath, coming back to indoor life, to him, to now.

Let’s go.

I didn’t dare to say, of course, to steal the scene, to throw a roadblock in the way. Now was hardly the time (it was never the time). My pain, my minor mishap, brought on myself, had second billing. The scene belonged – rightly, sadly, solely – elsewhere.

I drove the car (don’t ask me how). One-armed, past frozen fields, impassive cows, the old stone walls we knew so well. My throbbing wrist lay in my lap, its quiet pain pulsing, warning. Quiet minutes passed – this road again, worn dark by use, by day, by tears.

My father sits, a passenger, steeled yet small, no longer in control. Space contracts, the silence whole. Words don’t make sense, can’t hold this weight.

At last we’re here, the crunch of gravel the final stop. Carefully I ease myself out, holding my wrist like a delicate bird, before reaching my father, taking his arm.

xxxxxx

She has gone.

Just minutes ago, they say, eyes puffed, cheeks smeared, mouths askew with pain. My sister nods, silently, lashes wet. She steps towards me from the end of the bed, arms outstretched to gather me in.

Not this.. I say, I can’t…

I move to her other side, protect my arm, allow a clumsy embrace. I think I am broken.

------------------

We argued, of course, an hour later, in the car once more, this time to another hospital, a grotesque extension to the day.
I’m fine to drive. You’re not, she said.

Silence again. More waiting. An exercise in patience, in pain.
When at last the nurse appeared and called my name, it was my sister who stood up, her mothering automatic, concern not sought but imposed. I’m coming with you.

I see them even here, these reflections of care, too soon, a micro-echo of the steps my mother and I danced, pushing, pleading, yearning, resisting. Don’t look, don’t help, just go away. Besides, I think, this is my pain, my moment, my story to tell, not yours. I don’t want to be spoken for, talked over, matronised.

You’re broken, she said, my sister, not the nurse. I knew what she meant, resisted the bait, its metaphor too heavy, too obvious. I didn’t want to play this game of complicity, of silent smugness, superiority. It felt like a trap, laid so lightly, hidden in mossy words, to see if even here, even on the plastic chairs and unforgiving light, on the day our mother died, I could rally, pass the test, prove my literary worth.

Six weeks, the junior doctor says, wiping up the chalky water, cast complete. Should be mended by then.

I nod, in thanks, and quietly disagree.

This piece was written by Cruse Scotland Helpline Volunteer Lucy.

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