Went to the chiropractor today as my right arm has been going numb and weak from the shoulder down to the ring finger and pinkie. He took X-rays, came back, and asked how I'd gotten the huge trauma to my neck.
What? I didn't know I'd had any.
He slapped the X-ray up on the board. Turns out my neck is somewhat broken between C5 and C6. Pretty incredible picture, as even a sight-impaired toddler would notice the difference in my spine from all the other straight spots.
I've spent the hours since trying to recall an injury of that magnitude. The doctor suggested a skiing accident. I've never skied. I told him I'd literally been dropped on my head when I was a baby, but when I checked with Mom later, she said the woman who dropped me felt worse than I did about it.
I even called my ex-husband to see if he could think of something I couldn't. He confirmed that the time the man kicked me in the throat during a Tae Kwondo match wasn't hard enough to do such damage.
Might need to call my BFF, as we were cheerleaders together, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered falling out of a pyramid onto my head ...
A broken neck. Seems like a good excuse I can use to get out of things from now on. "Sorry, can't help move your piano." Point to neck. "Sorry, can't bag my own groceries." Point to neck. "Sorry, can't do laundry anymore." Point to ...
Any great fiction ideas for what happened to me? I need a really good story, but it has to have the reason why I don't remember built in!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
A tad anticlimactic? I think so. I noticed the empty category of Pulitzer Prizes when reading The Oregonian this morning. The mystery is afoot--as Tarzan from Survivor would say.
Imagine my thankfulness to Publishers Lunch when they graciously emailed an explanation to me. And all their other subscribers, I suppose. But it still saved me an hour or so by rough estimate of rabbit trailing around the internet to find out why and how novels are nominated and who chooses the winners and all those other questions now buzzing in your minds.
Here's the deal: 341 books were in the running and three were chosen as finalists. The Pale King by the late David Foster Wallace, Swamplandia! by Karen Russell, and the novella Train Dreams by Denis Johnson. The majority of the 20-person judging board didn't agree on one so NO ONE gets the prize. I'm sorry, but that seems wrong, wrong, wrong. What a heartbreak for the finalists!