Trending
I held little hope that there would be a column from me this week. It's been a pretty difficult one.
Has anyone else ever gone through a really extensive rough patch that you begin questioning if Satan has been working overtime and it's on you that he is focusing?
The thought of this brings tears to my eyes … even now, as I sit here to write this.
It is truly unfair when one person is receiving so much heartbreak.
And I am speaking for everyone who feels this way. Not just me.
The ones who are always struggling despite all of their continuous -- yet futile, efforts.
Why are there some people who are never blessed with just an ordinary, non-eventful day?
One 24-hour period where nothing wrong occurs?
A time when maybe, just maybe something actually will go right?
I can count on one hand how many times I've had a day such as this.
And after a while, it begins to take its toll. You are left wondering if you have anything else left to give.
I apologize if I come across as depressing this week. But I truly believe there are others who experience this kind of pain. This type of heartache.
The ones who feel they are a failure because life has failed them time and time again.
I need for them to know that they are not alone. Even though they surely feel like it.
And that they are not a failure, as nothing could be further from the truth.
In our weakest moments, we look around at others and it appears as if they are thriving. And here we are reliving the movie "Groundhog Day," over and over and over.
What I have learned is that appearances are just that.
They are synonymous with makeup in that it covers up what really lies beneath the surface.
No one's life is picture-perfect. No matter how much they would like for us to think it is.
Nobody has all the answers. No one has it all figured out.
And yet, isn't it true that during those days, weeks, months or even years of struggling, we still continue to hold on to that one fragment of hope? That one morsel of faith that it will get better?
We do.
Because without hope or faith, what else is there?
All we can do is keep trying.
Note: This was definitely not the column I had intended to write. And I honestly have no idea why I even wrote it.
Perhaps there is a reason …
My actual column is pieced together in my Notes app on my phone.
My phone is lying on the kitchen counter while I am at work 10 miles away.
So instead, I will share with you how I broke my arm this week.
I was awakened by my dogs at 3 a.m. Tuesday. Someone needed to go outside.
As I hurried through the hall I slipped on a very large puddle lying on my hardwood floor in front of the bathroom door.
Well, the dogs weren't about to help me in this situation. I'm fairly certain one of them even caused it.
So, I merely sat there screaming. Writhing in pain.
But that wasn't doing any good.
I had to call 911. Immediately.
I grabbed a sheet from the closet next to me, wiped up the floor so I didn't fall again and hobbled to my bedroom in order to call emergency services and inform them I slipped in … well, you know.
That was fun.
The sudden realization hit me that I would now be making an appearance at a hospital. Where doctors work. At the time I didn't know the doctors these days are all 12, but good to know for future reference.
And knowing me, there will always be the need for future reference.
All I knew at that time was that I seriously needed to change my soaking wet pajama pants.
My pain was so excruciating I just grabbed the nearest pair of pants I could get my only working arm on. Turned out to be black-and-white-striped flowery pajama pants.
And that would have been OK, until I realized I wasn't able to remove my shirt. No how. No way. My arm didn't bend that way. Or the other way, either.
I considered cutting it off but I only have right-handed scissors. Because I'm right-handed.
And of course, this was my right arm. So I remained in my pink, thin-strapped flowery pajama top which didn't remotely coordinate with the striped pants I was now wearing.
The shirt's matching pants were now in the hamper. With the sheet.
That was no good.
I stood there so mis-matched I cried. I was crying anyway, but now I was crying about this. I had always instructed my children to match at all times and to pay special attention to how they dress before going to bed.
If the house were to ever catch on fire, we all have to run outside. There isn't time to change clothes.
And the news cameras will no doubt put us on television asking how we feel to lose everything we own seeing as how we are now homeless. And wearing the only clothes we own.
The least we could do is match.
While there isn't any time to change clothes in case of a fire, there is time, however, to go and grab my Christmas decorations out of the basement and get them to safety.
Once those totes and boxes are outside we can start worrying about lives. (I am kidding, so please do not send me mail.)
My boys will tell you though. Even if asked today. What is the first thing you do if your house catches on fire?
They will respond with, "Grab the Christmas tree and decorations."
(Again, please do not write to me. The children are fine. They no longer live with me so all is well.)
Anyway, I went to the hospital seriously not caring what I looked like.
Because what I felt was absolutely horrific.
I ended up having a broken upper arm. And seven stitches down the bottom portion of the same arm.
I have massive bruises in areas I will not mention. And I re-injured my broken back.
All-in-all, it was not a pleasant morning. I did manage to get the dogs outside to go to the bathroom, though before I left for the hospital. I have a feeling they both didn't have to go.
(Stenger is the community editor of the Herald-Star and the Weirton Daily Times.)