As the result of the shooting I suffered a collapsed lung, two cracked ribs (one which now neatly encases a bullet that I will likely sneak through metal detectors for the rest of my life), a perforated stomach, a ruptured diaphragm, and the loss of my spleen and six-and-a-half of my eight units of blood. I carry with me, now, a number of scars that I’m none-too-happy to wear, including an eight-inch-long incision down my chest and an exit wound on my back so close to my spine that I’m sometimes surprised that the concussive force didn’t paralyze me, even though the bullet didn’t actually make contact.
More than two months later, though, I’m much, much better. I still can’t really exercise, and a bit of lingering nerve damage on the left side of my body makes the heat a little bit difficult to bear, but I will soon be as healthy as I was before the… incident… and so the whole unlucky episode is tinctured, I suppose, with a bit of good luck, even though I can’t really say I feel all that lucky.
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