My son turned sixteen. For the first time, he celebrated his birthday without me. When he cut the birthday cake with my husband, I was a hundred miles away at a trauma center after being brought in by helicopter for multiple fractures and a gaping wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Between the debilitating pain and medication-induced mental fog and nausea, I thought about the future.

How long would it take before I could be active again? Would I experience all the negative consequences of this injury the surgeon had told me about? With only one good arm, it was a tedious affair to peel and eat even half of a banana.

Between each bite, I noted not just its smell and texture, but also the funny little things about banana that had happened to me in the distant past.

Suddenly, all the unimportant things I had pushed aside during my busy career seemed so precious.

I wondered how I could have lived this long without missing their presence. The nurse came in and asked how I was doing. I said, “I’m in pain, and it’s a good thing.”