My friend, if it was sin in you and me
That we went fishing for each other in
The troubled waters of life
“SONNET XXXII,” JOY DAVIDMAN
October 18, 1956
Only God knows when life will burst open, shattering all self-made plans and expectations as illusory as dreams. For me, it was a Thursday, a regular Thursday by all accounts.
My sons were back at school. Jack’s final Narnian chronicle, The Last Battle, had just been released. Harcourt had published Till We Have Faces with its haunting black cover. We were both as thrilled as if we’d had our first child together, waiting for the reviews and readings.
Life had begun anew for both of us.
Autumn air rustled the birch tree, and songbirds called out to one another outside the open window of the small room where I typed pages for Kay Farrar’s new mystery novel. The imminent move to the Kilns preoccupied me.
Sambo rubbed against my leg, his fur sticking to my flannel pants. I leaned down and tickled him behind the ear. “You happy too, old boy? You’ve adjusted to Oxford, haven’t you?” He purred and walked toward the front door, looking over his shoulder. He wanted out.
I stood. That is all I did—stood and took one step.
And everything changed.
A white-hot, searing pain burst from my left hip. Fire shot down my leg and stripped breath from my lungs as I fell to the ground with a shriek of agony. For the fraction of a second I believed I’d been shot. I expected to see a hole in the wall or window, a thin river of blood trickling across the hardwood floor and seeping into the edges of my knotted rug.
The phone rang from the far side of the house in complete disregard of my agony, as if mocking me. Whoever was on that phone should have been able to hear me scream. I crumpled in on myself, folding into a fetal position with my leg bent at the wrong angle. The pain obliterated all senses but its own, selfish in its flooding anguish to be all I knew. I saw nothing, smelled nothing; the world existed only in the fire that was screaming through my body.
Slowly thoughts emerged, one by one. What happened? Was it bad? How had I fallen? Where was I? Had I tripped over Sambo?
No, I hadn’t. I’d stood, and my leg had given out below me.
With meticulous and tiny movements, I crawled across the wooden floor.
You can do this.
Slowly.
You have to get help.
Don’t panic.
Flames licked the inside of my thigh. I took long, deep breaths, but they caught in my throat and escaped as sobs against my will. I battled the mental fog of pain, struggling to think whom to call. I needed someone near, someone to come get me.
Kay. She was close by, only a block away. I finally reached the edge of the table. I couldn’t stand for the phone, so I grabbed its dark, hairy cord and yanked it to the floor. It banged and clattered, scaring Sambo to lurch across the room with a loud meow. In what seemed like slow motion, I dialed Kay’s number and waited through four long desperate rings for her to answer.
“Help me,” was all I said.