Broken Bones

So, just got the word...

My brother's had ANOTHER cycling accident. Something like four years to the date, my brother, once again, cycling down in Florida, goes down on his bike. And he is an excellent cyclist, neither accident was his fault. So, clearly, he should be thinking about avoiding Florida in the future.

Stay in Chicago! That's what we all say, don't we?

Anyway, so he's just gotten out of surgery for a compound fracture of his femur, and while he's doing well, he's now going to have to deal with the stigma of setting off every single metal detecter at every airport from now until forever.

I supposed there are worse things. Like a head injury or a spine injury...or just not having any legs to break in the first place, but still...

How grateful am I today that I have, not only two working legs, but a phone (two in fact) with which I can call my mother and let her know I love her, as well as send my sister-in-law texts with funny phrases and jokes (Monty Python's a favorite) to ease her undoubtedly frazzled disbelieving brain.

And, when the time comes, and my brother's had a sufficient amount of valium, I will call him and listen and love and make fun of him just a little bit for being in Florida. Again.

Round and round we go, where it stops, or crashes, nobody knows.

A