Page 73 of AMS.TER.strum

I let out a fed-up huff. Since the photo of my brace-clad foot was posted a week ago, both by me and Aaron—who even suggested a collaboration with a home-wear brand—the whole affair did go viral, as if never in the history of music has an artist had an accident.

Unsurprisingly, reactions varied. There were the genuinely compassionate ones, thankfully the majority. But there was also a slush pile of others, disgusting and slippery like ploughed wet snow, implying my fall wasn’t because of an elevated sidewalk brick but because I was drunk. As if there has ever been even one single incident of me stumbling onstage. And then there were the others, where, after wishes for a fast recovery, offered to nurse me back to health.

Getting better.

How are you guys doing?

Gordon

Doing some last-minute gigs here and there.

Gordon

Patiently waiting for you to board that flight back.

A meme follows: John Travolta from Pulp Fiction, looking left and right. I reply with a LOL emoji, although I truly feel bad for having left them hanging.

Can’t hurry recovery.

Around three weeks to go.

That around was strategically placed there; it’ll probably be one more week than that, but we’ll cross that bridge when the time comes for me to book a flight. We exchange our news and say our goodbyes, but not before a last message comes.

Gordon

Great to hear that you’re being nursed back to health.

Despite the selfie where my middle finger is front and center concluding our conversation, I’m truly grateful that he and Joey make sure to check on me daily. As does Aaron, who even offered to find me a ground-floor Airbnb, disabled-friendly, where he would also arrange for daily help. Which I flatly refused before even passing the idea through Corrie.

So what has been a week of physical pain—how can my tailbone hurt so much every time I try to sit?—has also been a soul-soothing one, because I am being spoiled with attention and care.

And drawings from two very enthusiastic five-year-olds, who want to skip school in order to stay with me, and leave only after repeated promises that I’ll be here when they come back and that I’ll sing their song before bed.

And then there’s Corrie, whose sole presence is spoiling me. I never thought we’d be given the chance to co-exist in such close quarters except in my dreams. Or have a routine together.

At the same time, stress sneaks in, as I’m being reminded by fans and the band that the clock is ticking. Every day towards healing is one less day here.

So now, as I’m sitting on Corrie’s couch, in this ridiculous predicament, crutches leaning against its back, yet feeling better than ever, especially when I think of that fairy land/spaceship blow-up mattress in her bedroom and those homey nights in there, surrounded by love. I wonder whether this countdown is like the one I—unbeknownst to me—had with Mom and Dad before they were taken from me. Will situations conspire in favour of us or against us, and how much say will we have?

Nobody can stop time, but right now, that we’re living together, Corrie and I, and one of us isn’t in excruciating pain, it’s a good time for a couple of things to be discussed. I opt for an evening that the kids are at their grandparents’ so that we won’t have interruptions by someone having a bad dream, and ask her to join me on the couch.

‘But your leg?’

Admittedly, it takes some logistics for her to sit at the other end of the couch, but I want her close, not in the armchair across the coffee table. I need to touch even a small part of her body over her clothes when I look into her eyes. Even so, I’m gargling the thoughts in my brain as I do the words in my mouth.

‘We need to talk.’

Her face takes on a terrified expression. ‘O… kay.’

I stretch my arm to wrap my hand around her wrist. ‘It’s not about you or us… I mean, it’s not about you, and it’s definitely about me, and also about us.’