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When I walked into the hospital today, the number on the administration screen read 32.

For just a second, I smiled.

Thirty-three is my number.

Maybe today was different, I thought.

What if my luck was finally changing.

Perhaps my mom was somewhere, winking at me from heaven, whispering, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything is going to be okay,” like she was looking out for me after all.

I walked over to the ticket machine, feeling strangely hopeful.

I pulled my number with strange anticipation.

H34.

Well…f*ck.

It’s such a silly little thing. But had I pulled H33, I probably would have taken a picture, posted it on Instagram, and convinced myself it was a sign that my orthopedic appointment was going to go well and that the Wheel of Fortune would soon be spinning in my favour.

Instead, I sat down and waited.

Across from me sat an overly friendly-looking woman with her husband. He was holding ticket H33.

Of course he was.

“Thirty-three,” the receptionist called.

The woman smiled at me a few times while I pretended to be completely absorbed and fascinated with my phone.

Please don’t ask, I thought.

Please don’t ask how I broke my arm.

“How did you break your arm?” she chirped.

Sigh.

Here’s something I never understood until I became the person with the cast, the splint, the stitches, and the wounds.

When you’re seriously injured, you don’t just carry the injury.

You carry the story. You carry the trauma and the fast-beating heart whenever someone asks questions about it.

And every time someone asks “What happened?” you have to revisit one of the worst moments of your life.

Every grocery store.

Every coffee shop.

Every pharmacy trip.

Every waiting room.

Again. And again. And again. Multiple times every day. Yesterday, I got asked five times.

I know people mean well. I really do.

But I’ve started wondering if that question comes more from curiosity than compassion.

Because injured people don’t always want to relive the trauma.

Sometimes we just want to pick up groceries and feel normal during the one occasion we get to leave the house today.

Or sit quietly while waiting for our appointment without having our nervous system hijacked again.

Or enjoy five uninterrupted minutes without replaying the moment our world turned upside down.

Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about giving different answers.

“Bear attack.”

“Shark.”

“I lost a fight with a velociraptor.”

“Alien abduction. Long story.”

Anything except the sad, boring truth.

Today was also the first time I saw my hand since surgery.

Thirty-three staples.

Swelling.

Bruising.

A roadmap of incisions where different skilled surgeons did everything they could to put me back together.

It was a lot to take in.

And it taught me something.

I’ll never ask a stranger how they broke their arm, wrist, leg, shoulder—or any other body part—again.

Instead, I think I’ll say something like:

“I’m wishing you a gentle recovery.”

Or…

“I’m sending your arm a little extra love today.”

Sometimes people don’t need another invitation to revisit the worst day of their lives, or to remember all that pain.

Sometimes the greatest kindness is giving them permission to simply be a person for a little while—not the person who was hurt.

Today, that’s all I wanted.

And I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

Turns out I got my 33 after all. It just wasn’t in the way I was hoping.

~