And so, here I am convalescing.

It’s been eight weeks since the dogs and I collided on the driveway, which resulted in a broken hip, a fractured arm, a tangle of nerves in one leg and foot, and assorted other bruises, sprains and damages.  All mine.  The dogs escaped injury-free.

After eighteen days in the hospital, I’ve been homebound now for another thirty-eight days … and counting.  And feeling properly grumpy and cross.

But in the midst of it all, I received a lovely and thoughtful book from my equally lovely and thoughtful niece.  In the note with it, she wrote how she hoped I would enjoy the book while I was “convalescing.”  And suddenly my perspective rather shifted.

“Convalescing” has such an elegant and purposeful sound to it.  It reminds me of chaise lounges on wide green lawns and vases of roses and afternoon sun, reading books and sipping cool drinks with kind visitors.  My reality does not necessarily measure up, of course.  But I can always go there in my mind and imagination.  And best of all, “convalescing” holds the implication of ultimate recovery and wellness, a restoration to previous lifestyle and energy level.  All of this is waiting there in one, lovely, old-fashioned, word.

And words do matter.

As a global society, I know we have become more and more sensitive to this fact that words matter.  But I suspect that we too often think of it on much wider, vaster world stages – rather than inside one friend’s hospital room or written in a note tucked into a gift book.  But for the past 56 days (and counting) I’ve had little else to do but listen to and read the words around me and for me.  And I am grateful beyond expression for all the encouragement I’ve heard.  

Those who tell me I am brave and strong make me feel a bit braver and I want to be a bit stronger just for them.  A voice that says: “How well you look,” helps me walk a bit steadier (without tipping over), and stand a bit straighter, perhaps feeling the pain a bit less.  I’ve learned that the words:  “Please let me bring you some food or stay with you overnight” are sincere – and they help me get through the dark places, and allow me to eat much better than when I am left to scrounge for myself.  And I’ve felt firsthand the pure energy that passes from one to another with a well-timed hug and a whisper of caring thoughts:  “I’m praying for you,” lifts my spirit; “I love you,” comforts my heart; “I understand,” soothes my mind.

Words matter.

I remember in particular one very hard day in the hospital.  One of my dear friends was trying her best to comfort me.  She had already brought me a large bottle of water filled from the “God’s Acre Healing Springs” in Blackville, SC.  And she offered to get me other special treats and to do any number of favors for me.  But all I could do was decline her kindnesses over and over.  All I could do was lie there and cry in pain and self-pity.  After a moment of silence she asked:  “Well then, can I just cry with you?”  And it made all the difference.  Because words can do that.

So as I remain “convalescing,” perhaps not on wide green lawns with roses, but certainly with you nearby in my imagination and heart, and we are sipping cool drinks together, I hope you know I am writing these words now as small thank you notes to you – in appreciation for all your kind words to me.  They have mattered.