Half way through work at a famous Paris pastry shop, I fell down the stairs. I landed on my derriere (thank goodness I have plenty of padding there), but most of my weight fell on my left elbow. At first I thought just my ego was bruised but after a few moments, the pain started seeping through my arm. I tried to shrug the whole thing off, but eventually I gave in and told the boss. Someone immediately whisked me into the office to examine my arm. After a generous spreading of an unusual homeopathic cream, they bundled me up and sent me home. My instructions were to wait an hour or two and if things still hurt, then head to the hospital.

Once home, the pain seemed to ignite into a burning ball of fire, so I figured it was best to find the nearest hospital. But I had no idea where that might be and what if I couldn't understand what they were saying to me? Then my brain seized on an idea. I had heard of The American Hospital on the outskirts of Paris, so a quick one-handed Internet search later, I had an address.

Jumping in a cab, I recited the address and off we went, speeding through the city. Upon arrival, I passed through the automatic doors and was greeted by a smiling nurse - and she spoke English! She took my information and quickly handed me off to the doctor who hailed from New Mexico. After a quick examination of my arm, she smiled and said she didn't think it was broken, but wanted to send me up for x-rays just in case. A sympathetic nurse from Ireland brought me two pain pills and sent me to the second floor.

After an agonizing hour, the pain pills did their work and I was grinning from ear to ear by the time my name was called. That smile was quickly ripped away though as the x-ray technician bent my arm into unnatural poses and snapped pictures. If I was under interrogation, then this form of torture would surely work. I would have confessed to anything just to have her quit moving my arm. Five minutes later, a second doctor appeared to concur with the first. Nothing was broken.

X-rays in hand, I returned downstairs so the first doctor could bandage me up. My arm in a fuzzy sling, I was handed a piece of paper with three prescriptions, a long list of care instructions, and a notice for work indicating that I needed to stay home for the next five days. The staff sent me on my way and after paying 250 Euros, I hopped into another taxi bound for home.

When Fabrice returned from work on his mid-afternoon break, he found me lying down with my eyes closed singing to myself. The crazy grin was back - I had just taken all my new medications. He asked me if I was happy to have a mini vacation from work. Thinking soberly for a moment, I realized the answer was no. I like working. Having something I need to do everyday is important to me. I need to feel like I'm making a contribution or making a difference, not just sitting around on my derriere. Although I must admit it will be nice not to have to get up at 5:00 AM every morning.

But have you ever realized how hard it really is to just use one hand all the time? It makes the simple things like making dinner, washing the dishes or taking a shower seem almost impossible. Hmmmm, I wonder if I can get Fabrice to shave my legs for me. Just imagine how entertaining it is to write this story one-handed, and on a French keyboard no less!

I guess the moral of my story is to be careful what you wish for. I will think twice before I say, "I can do that with one hand...."

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