Remembering Doria

One Father's Journey after the Death of his Daughter

Broken, But Not Broken


A huge date came and went on the 17th. Eighteen months since Doria died. I had a series of posts all planned out about the differences between then and now. Suddenly, that plan changed on the 14th. On my way to class, I fell on the ice and fractured my wrist. That made typing a little harder, and slowed me down a little.

That said, it gave me a chance to reflect a little differently about the work effects from Doria’s death. As a grad student in history, I live by reading. This cast made it clunky, but I could still make progress while I figured it out. Doria’s death, on the other hand, knocked some wind out of me, and just kept taking more and more as the months trudged by.

I remember how impossible it was to focus after Doria died, and how I got less done as time went by and adrenaline wore off. Im much happier with this type of injury, because this just took a couple of modifications to go sailing on through. A book stand and another device solved this thing. That certainly wasn’t the case 12 or 18 months ago. 

This is a little nicer, too, just because it’s obvious. Nobody can really miss my bright red cast. It’s a big, loud badge of honor. The same way, when it’s cut off in 20 days, this is over. Exercise the hand and wrist and drive on, as opposed to the invisible would with visible effects that are so difficult to understand for all of us. 

So this is better. I could take a quick break from my reading to write about two different break points. With this book, I needed that. Unlike this time a year ago, I can get right back to work. I’d better do that. So thankful not to be broken right now.


2 thoughts on “Broken, But Not Broken

  1. That’s a very right analogy. Grief over loss is such an invisible scar, not only do many people refuse to acknowledge it (because it’s ugly), but you can’t just go around with a sign on your head proclaiming it. I find that annoying, especially when I’m in situations that bother me or make me uncomfortable because of the personal implications, and everyone around me who doesn’t know that I lost my son are giving looks like “what is her problem?” Sometimes I wish I could just wear a sandwich board, lol, but then you’re accused of not “letting go.” It’s a very weird spot to be in.

    Sorry to hear about your wrist — I hope you have a speedy recovery!

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