Have you heard the phrase: "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?" This story is my lemonade.

It's just past midnight. In less than five hours, it will be time for me to get up and go to work, "Lord willing," another phrase I've heard all my life. Here I lie wide awake again, restless, frustrated and in pain. My left arm is encased in a cast from biceps to hand. I just finished stuffing cotton around my thumb where the cast is chafing. Tomorrow will be my first post-cast follow-up visit--12 days since I got my cast, 13 days since my fall.

A group of us had gone to Port Angeles the prior weekend and started the spring face-lift on Mother's yard. Her yard was beginning to look so nice; I decided I'd get started on mine. I took a couple days' vacation. One of my tasks was to move a large wooden planter box to another side of the patio. I pushed for a while. The wheels weren't the greatest, and it was slowgoing. I had nearly reached the new location. I decided I'd give it one good pull to swing it into position. Well, as I gave a mighty heave-ho, the side of the box gave way. I fell hard on my hand on the concrete.

I lay there wrenching in pain and thoroughly pissed at myself. I didn't want to move as I knew it would mean MORE pain! And I knew I had broken something-I'd never felt this kind of pain before. I'd rank it right up there with a hard contraction. I decided I'd better get up before a neighbor passed by and saw me sprawled out on the patio. I crawled and dragged myself to my feet. I went inside and immobilized my arm and chucked down some Advil.

You should know, I have to be near death to willingly go to the hospital, and it was my day off... So, I stubbornly-a trait that runs deep in our family-went back out and one-handedly finished moving the planter box. I went to bed early, more stressed about going to the hospital than the pain in my arm. I went to emergency the next morning, and they X-rayed and confirmed: Yep, I'd broken both the radius and ulna. They put my arm in a temporary cast for the weekend, and on Monday morning I went to an orthopedic doctor. I was put in this heavy, hard cast with my elbow bent.

Now, every little thing is a struggle, particularly trying to type-that's my job, I'm a writer-communications specialist. My 90-plus words per minute are down to about 30 words per minute. And dressing myself is a joke without a punch line.

I left work early today-fatigued. I stopped by a thrift store on my way home-shopping for more elastic-waist pants, slip-on shoes, and baggy-sleeved shirts. Today a coworker had asked "How is your arm?" "I wish I could cut it off..." I gasped at what I'd said. My brother flashed to mind.

The year was 1999. I was working on a technical writing contract in Sacramento, California when I got the call. Mike was being life-flighted from Port Angeles, Washington to Virginia Mason Hospital in Seattle. He had lost a horrendous amount of blood. First, they had to save his life, then worry about saving his arm. There was talk of amputation. I drove a frantic ten miles home, my mind racing, ticking off what to do next: get home, pack a few things, call the airlines, and hit the cash machine... At the airport I made calls home trying to get an update. Any word? How is he? What happened?

The flight was endless. As the airplane engine droned in the background, I flipped through magazine pages and stared out the window, willing the flight to end quickly. I prayed for my brother. Oddly, looking back now, it wasn't a prayer: "God, please don't let him die". My prayer was more: "Please be with him, stay with him". I couldn't think of my brother dying.

Mike worked on a road construction crew. The crew was paving a new bypass in Sequim, Washington. He was operating a large blacktop paver. The weather had turned cool and drizzling, so he was wearing his weather suit. During paving, he had to make some control adjustments in motion. He reached into the wheel well, and his sleeve caught in the gears. His arm was sucked in, crushing it from just above his hand to mid-triceps.

When my flight arrived I grabbed a taxi to the hospital. I was so relieved to see Mike. Our eyes met. He was alive. His arm was still attached, heavily bundled in bandages. He was hooked up to a self-pump morphine drip and a host of other monitors and IVs. Candy, his wife, sat at his bedside. She refused to leave. It was three days before we could get her to come with us to get some rest and clean clothes. Outside the hospital room she hugged me so tightly, I was surprised at her strength and glad when she cried. She was exhausted. I left her at my sister's that night. I just couldn't stay. I headed for a hotel. I needed to get a grip on my own emotions and, she needed to sleep.

Mike was lefthanded before his accident, just 44 years old. He has undergone countless surgeries, skin graphs, a muscle transplant from his back, and pins in his arm-all to rebuild his left arm. The surgeons saved his arm, but it's not functional. He must be extra careful and protect it from injury. He wears an elastic stocking and his arm always seems swollen. Even with a mountain of meds, he lives in constant pain and no longer works. Mike can only use his right arm.

And I now have had a glimpse of what he faces each and every day. Here I am, complaining about six weeks in a cast, while Mike must face a lifetime. So, as the clock moves toward 2 o'clock in the morning, I realize things could have been worse, much worse. So what if I can't type as fast as I'd like or have difficulty washing, getting dressed, and I can't do my nails or apply deodorant...

I admit this has been a humbling experience and, at times, even humorous. I'm becoming very resourceful. But most of all, I'm grateful I didn't break my dominant right hand.

Now that I've had a taste of how the loss of the use of a limb alters every day life, I know what it feels like to be dependent on others. I have a few antidotes to share. It occurs to me that other injured and physically impaired people may have some stories to tell as well. I am compiling a book: Life and Limb. And I hope it will encourage others to share their stores to inspire and help others cope and get on with their lives.

So where's the lemonade? I'm not sure if my brother has found the lemonade in his life, but I know what I think it is. As for me, I'm learning to reach out to others and ask for help. That's not easy for me.

I've always prided myself in being self-sufficient. Well, "Pride cometh before the fall," literally. But through this ordeal, which I am finally able to type up from handwritten notes four weeks, I've learned by not allowing others to help me, I deny them the feeling of being needed and the joy that comes from giving.