The human body is an incredible thing. It’s made up mostly of water, but it’s constructed around a brittle skeleton of calcium-based bone. When it breaks, it’s a gruesome sight and feeling, and it’s an amazing feat that it can blend itself back together, even if it’s with a little help from the NHS.
My jaw was broken 12 days ago, by two cowardly, thieving little fucks, and put together expertly a mere 18 hours later by the undervalued, and underpaid members of the NHS that work at Whipps Cross Hospital. So, here I am, down the line, trying to rationalise the slow, ponderous process by which the human body mends itself. My jaw is struggling to fit together as it once did, stitches holding it together, covering plates underneath. I try to bite and can’t get my front teeth together, and worry is seeping in. I reassure myself that things will be ok, that I’ll speak to the hospital, and that everything is taking its natural course, but it’s only human nature to think the unthinkable.
I walked down the dimly lit road it happened on for the first time today. Unlike the night it occurred, this was bathed in sunlight. It was daytime, and it’s going to be a long time before I go down that route after dark. It’s not a matter of kicking myself that it was somehow my fault, but there’s no point in prodding fate once more. I’ve been fairly placid about the whole affair until now, but I was in minor turmoil as I headed under the bridge and along the long, straight path again. I’d be daft to think it wouldn’t affect me, of course not, but I don’t want to let it do anything more than that. I need to convince myself I’m strong, and that it’s not beaten me, and I’m fine with that at the moment.
Maybe it’ll hit me, it’ll all come tumbling down like a pack of cards. I hope not, and I believe not. I like where I live, and I feel an affinity to it, even though I’d never been there before I moved. And I don’t want to be forced out. I live in the best city in the world, and I’d no intention of changing, even if I’ve suffered as I have. Instinct tells me to confront the feelings, and not push them to the back of my mind, to resolve them and not hide them. I remind myself on a daily basis that it could’ve been worse, and maybe should have been. No possession is worth dying for, and even if I’ve confronted my own mortality in the last few weeks, I’m a comfortable distance from it still, and I intend to be for a long time yet.