I sprained my ankle last Friday. I thought I had time to go for a run and to shower before meeting up with friends to go out. I did have time for the run and the shower parts, but not for the falling, the lying in the dirt, or the limp home parts.
Today, I spent more than two hours writing a blog that I promise was decently funny and had at least three insights.
It had an in-scene opening: the taxi operator’s hold music is Fur Elise, but only the first movement over and over with fuzzy pauses in between.
It had dramatic irony: me limping around that Friday night on my Grade 2 sprain denying how bad it was.
It had funny bits: my friend Warren who was walking home from leg day at the gym when I tumbled out of a taxi with my cast and tried to process-of-elimination learn to walk on my newly crutches.
It got pretty pathetic: unable to leave the residencia, I survived on fruits and nuts my friend Chloe donated to the cause and on nine hours straight of Game of Thrones subtitled in Spanish.
It had a show-don’t-tell kindness of strangers bit: the taxi driver — who has two sons (¿Or did he say hijas?) and got really pensive when I joked about my mom getting to sleep while I was putting on a polite face for the hospital’s translator — refusing to let me pay the full fare and leaving me his name and phone number in case I wanted a friendly face when I went back to the hospital.
It threw in Spanish but didn’t rely on a language that is foreign to most of my readers. The Spanish-heaviest section was brief — something like: “Me quedé en blanco. I didn’t have the words para explicar lo que me ha pasado to the polo-wearing middle-aged woman cutting through the park. ‘H—hola,’ I said. She frowned as she stepped around me. Tirado en el suelo and with the Haim album still playing in my running earphones, I waited it out. Nearby, packs of Spanish teens leaned against park benches and passed around communal 40s of cerveza to drink.”
It offered both more first-hand observations and the vocab buzz words of a sociology minor who’s studied health care systems in SOC 424.
And, in a narrow, half-lit yellow hallway teeming with elderly people also waiting for the feeble bones doctor, it had me trying to react to nuns who talked too quickly in Spanish for me to know if they were recounting their life stories or if they were just small chatting.
We will not be viewing that blog post today.
The Wi-Fi crashed when I clicked Save Draft.
This situation is entirely culpa mía. I assure you I normally write in Word and not directly in WordPress and am usually much more guarded with copy and pasting.
You deserve more than an apology letter. emilydonovan.com and its affiliates are holding themselves accountable and promise to uphold this letter’s precedent of transparency as they do everything in their power to prevent this avoidable error in the future. (Editor’s note: “They” is only me, but the title and departure from first person creates some gravitas.)
I don’t have the morale to properly rewrite that blog post.
Instead, I offer you only this advice:
Save your drafts as you go. And, when avoidable, don’t compare international health care systems through first-hand experiences.
We’ll try again next time.