Poor me

And Fox-lox said: “Come along with me, and I will show you the way.” But Fox-lox took them into the fox’s hole, and he and his young ones soon ate up poor Chicken-licken, Hen-len, Cock-lock, Duck-luck, Drake-lake, Goose-loose, Ganderdander,and Turkey-lurkey; and they never saw the King to tell him that the sky had fallen.

The unfortunate demise of Chicken-licken was my favourite bedtime tale when I was a kid. For those of you who haven’t read it, it’s a story about a chicken who decides that the sky must be falling when an acorn lands on his head. He wanders about the forest, gathering a group of friends to help him make the journey to tell the King. A fox eats them before they get there. The end.

This sick little story taught little Juliet Buckler some very important lessons. Firstly, it taught me not to jump to fucking stupid conclusions. Chances are, the sky isn’t falling—it’s probably just an acorn. Secondly, it taught me not to be naive enough to trust a hungry fox—or anyone, really. Thirdly, and most importantly, it taught me that shit happens. Life isn’t all Harry Potter defeats Dumbledore and has three cute kids with Ginny. Sometimes things go super wrong.

Five weeks ago I arrived in Christchurch to visit my parents for a week. Four weeks ago I fell into a big hole and broke my back. Two weeks ago I had some hip bone and metal grafted onto my spine. Today I went to the mall and bought some cute socks (irrelevant, but jolly).

There are definite perks in my situation. I had to quit uni and can’t work, so the government is paying me to sit about all day, chain-smoking and reading pornographic historical fiction. I don’t even have to stand up in the shower anymore—they gave me a stool. They also gave me an odd little contraption that looks like a bionic arm to save me bending down to pick things up. I mainly use it to dangle my underwear in front of my mother’s face as she tries to do the dishes.

I’ve accepted the fact that my life is going to be a bit shit for a while. The last twenty-one years have been relatively incident free, so I figure that it’s my turn for a bit of hardship. The thing that is getting tedious, though, is the insistence of my well-wishers on telling me twenty times each day how lucky I am.

It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, sure. Give me a few weeks and I’ll be breakdancing again, sans wheelchair. In fact, I spent last night drinking wine in bed with old friends—I can’t be that ill. But as far as I’m concerned, falling into a hole mid-wee, knickers down, isn’t a stroke of luck. Winning $2 from an instant Kiwi is good luck. Being asked the only essay question you studied for is good luck. Not falling into the hole is good luck.

It’s cute, I guess, this blind positivity, this obsession with happy endings. It’s like everyone wants reassurance that I like having a broken back, that I consider myself quite lucky to have been given the opportunity to learn traits like patience and compassion.

I don’t, overall, like having a broken back. I do, however, like to grumble about it. Everybody likes to grumble. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be so obsessed about talking about the weather. We wouldn’t have funerals. We wouldn’t go to work hungover. In fact, I bet if we didn’t like complaining so much people wouldn’t go to work at all.

But the one time I get something really juicy to complain about, an excuse to wince and moan every time I make the slightest movement, people aren’t letting me. Instead, they look at me with these wide, expecting eyes until I crack and say something like “Yeah, I’m so lucky. Like, I could’ve broken my arms too.”

I’ll bet that Chicken-licken, Hen-len, Cock-lock, Duck-luck, Drake-lake, Goose-loose, Ganderdander,and Turkey-lurkey complained and protested as they saw their friends being savaged and eaten. And who could blame them?

At least it was a quick death, I guess.