No Apologies

When I marched up to the gate at the airport the other day, my family rolled their eyes. Here she goes again, their expressions announced. And I mean...my whole family. I haven't been on a plane with my brother and sister since I was fourteen. Their spouses and children all watched me march right up to the gate attendant and announce my injury.

I boarded the plane ahead of everyone, cheerfully claiming my seat. Asking my husband sweetly, "Could you help me?" and reminding him, "I have a broken arm."

I'm annoying everyone and I'm totally fine with it.

A week ago, I was getting ready to board a different plane. Different trip, different flight. It was 3:30 AM, and I didn't want to wake my kids. My middle son Noah had crawled into bed with me at some point, so I had to be really quiet, because I knew if I woke him the resulting whines and tears would cause me strife.

Instead, I dressed for my flight as quietly as I could. To avoid excess noise, I lifted my suitcase up and hobbled to our stairs. And because I'm me, my socked foot slid on the first step and I bounded down eight stairs with the suitcase on top of me.

At the landing, I was crumpled in a daze. The noise of my fall on hollow wood in our echoey house woke everyone. The dog sat worriedly at the bottom of the stairs, Noah rushed down to me, my husband crowded in.

Later Joe told me, "You never made a sound. The fall did, but you didn't."

I did not ask for help. I did not say I was hurt. I didn't say anything. My life is not mine. It belongs to my family. My heart is not mine. It's theirs, too. The only thing in my mind was, "I am getting on that plane." I was going to New York City with my book. The one thing in the world that is one-hundred percent all mine.

I blacked out. Twice. I threw up. Once.

When I couldn't lift my arm at airport security, they offered me first aid. I had no choice but to refuse it when they told me I couldn't fly if my arm was broken.

That's when I knew. Of course it was broken.

"I'm okay," I insisted.

I waited my turn to board the plane. I held up the line of boarding passengers while a nice middle-aged man helped me lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment. In my seat awaiting takeoff, I held my seizing left arm with my right hand and did Lamaze. As the plane picked up speed on the runway, I was sweating, but I felt amazing.

Nothing could take this from me.

I was getting to New York City. I would attend the New York Pitch Conference. I would meet with editors from the best publishers. I would pitch them the book that has consumed my life for too long.

And three of them would say "Send me your work."

The first day I was there, I had no time to worry about a broken arm. I barely made it to the conference. I downed ibuprofen and sat in my chair, avoided movement on my left side, balanced my laptop on my knees, and tried to absorb everything that was said to me. That night, once the conference had finished for the day, I made my way to a creepy city urgent care. My Uber got lost. "Ubers don't get lost," Joe said. "They use Google."

Mine got lost.

The X-ray at urgent care confirmed that my left elbow was fractured. They gave me a sling and advised me to see a specialist as soon as I could.

"Monday," I said. It was Thursday. They looked disapproving, but what could they do, really?

Days one and two of the conference, I was the first of our group to pitch. In front of eighteen people I'd never met before, I had to talk about my book. I had to summarize a story that has become part of me. I had to sell it. Without anyone else to show me how, or to mess up for me to see what not to do, I got up and followed one my life rules: Act confident and no one will know you're not.

When they found out my arm was broken, someone said, "My God. Are you okay?" and I laughed. I told them, "I've waited too long to get here. This won't stop me."

And it didn't.

Day four, I was last to pitch. A new friend (of which there were several, and I'm so grateful) laughed because I had seated my temporarily handicapped self right beside the door and waited and waited for the end of the line to come.

She said, "You're first in line but last to go!"

I burst out laughing much harder than I think she expected. Except...she had just encapsulated my entire life in eight words.

Always first in line. But somehow always last.

A few days later with my arm in a sling, I had my three sons, their respective backpacks, two stray hoodies, and a purse laden with hand sanitizer, gum, snacks, a bottle of water, and somebody else's headphones.

"MO-OM! Joey's not letting me use the tablet!"

"MOM! Tell Noah to stop touching my stuff!"

"Mommy? I have to pee SO BAD!!!!!"

"Mar? Do you have room in your bag for this?"

"I WANTED TO SIT THERE! MOM, TELL HIM I CAN SIT THERE!"

"NO! MOM, TELL HIM I WAS THERE FIRST!"

"Mommy? Is our dog going to die while we're gone?"

Yes. I got on the plane first.

Yes, I asked for help.

But. As you can see, I was first in line, but still last. I'm not complaining.

But I'm not apologizing, either.