Burnt Toast
An essay on the beauty of imperfection — what burnt toast, missed flights, and wrong turns teach us about grace, faith, and the unexpected gifts of disruption.
It was a weekend like any other in my small corner of South London: cold and foggy, with bits of rain leaping from their respective cloud beds to remind the arrogant humans down below that we are not in control. We are mere mortals, eternally at the mercy of the wind and the sea, towering green and yellow trees, and the inevitable domino effect of happenings triggered by you and me. It's all one big cosmic mystery. Call it what you want: fate, karma, destiny, God's plan, chance, or a random dice roll. However you package it, we all experience series of defining moments and collisions that propel us forward, into the great unknown. I think I prefer it this way- despite how allusive the answers to my burning questions may be these days…
Small droplets collected on the fur lining of my chocolate-brown jacket as I made my way to the train station. It was a weekend like any other, except that three of my friends from the states (SJ, Madeline, & Hannah) would be passing through. We met for over-priced cocktails and techno-beat dancing, as girls in their mid-twenties must perpetually do. There was laughter and flashing lights and failed pick-up lines from lurking men and cigarettes in the street and 3 AM kebabs and jumping on the hotel bed and then there was sleep.
The next day began with brunch and hot tea, which then melted into a stop by the market on Portobello Road. We grazed through rows of vendors and pop-up shops and food stands. My friends were amazed by the copious amount of fur coats and vintage watches and digital cameras and hand-stitched rugs and collectors items on display. If you've ever had the pleasure of visiting this market, you would know that it is a living, breathing exhibit showcasing the beauty and chaos and diversity of London. We were swept away by the electric feeling hanging heavily in the air. That feeling carried us even further to an authentic Irish sports bar a few blocks away.
We stepped into a hustling, bustling scene of enthusiastic football fans, hollering and cheering at the flat screens hung on every wall. A bright-eyed bartender with a 5 o'clock shadow supplied us with the goods: two Stella's and one pint of Guinness, just for me. SJ, Hannah, and I settled into a small unoccupied corner near the smoke area. The next hour our bellies were filled with beer and unbridled laughter. A large group of drunk men with loose ties and suit jackets over their shoulders (clearly belonging to the finance district) shuffled outside, leaving a vacant wooden table at our disposal.
We plopped down into the warm chairs and had a server bring a hot order of fish and chips our way. Hannah, feeling free and flirtatious, made eyes at a group of young men across the way. Shortly after, she took a trip to the bathroom, and SJ and I conspired to set her up with her favorite eligible bachelor of the three. With the help of some persuasion, giggling, and hair-twirling, they were sat comfortably at our table, talking to us frankly and fervently with their thick, Irish accents. They were Galway boys, working blue collar jobs in the heart of The Big Smoke.
Three hours later. Empty beer and shot glasses, bent and bitten-into lime wedges, and the lingering, unmistakably sharp stench of tequila permeated our circle. The boys confessed, in between slurs and mischievous grins, that their hearts did in fact belong to unsuspecting girls back home.
It was time to go.
We said our goodbyes and embarked on the last leg of our tour de London. What could satisfy the ending of a girls night out in a big city, you ask?
Disco roller skating, of course.
We walked into the dimly lit building, illuminated by the glow of strobing lights and lasers and fragmented beams reflecting off a disco ball the size of God in the center of the room. I laced up my roller skates and wobbled towards the rink with wavering confidence and stupid determinism. My friends glided past me effortlessly, while I clung to the wall. The most talented skater of our group, Antonia, reached out her hand and invited me to be courageous. She was a new friend of mine, wild and wonderful and Welsh, and I refused to let her down in that moment. I gripped her hand tightly and we made our way around the slick floor twice. Maybe I wasn't so bad at this after all. Spoiler: I spoke too soon.
On the third turn, my wheels locked up and I lost my balance. In one quick, sweeping motion my ankle buckled and a loud snapping sound rang through my leg, up my torso, and deep into my ears mercilessly. I remember sitting quietly on the floor, holding my foot, and fighting back tears. Several people began talking at once and trying to help me stand. I stared at the wall ahead, fixated. Only one thought in my head: "I just broke my ankle".
I had never fractured anything other than a toe prior to this incident, but strangely my brain and my body knew exactly what had occurred. I was rolled away in a wheelchair, bracing myself as we ran over the bumps and edges on the floor. A stout, kind-eyed man sat in front of me in a back room, designated for injuries. This clearly happens often. His name was Leigh, spelled exactly like my middle name. I made sure to let him know this obviously important detail, as I cried and laughed hysterically. He looked at me curiously. I think I entertained him on some level, because a grin kept fighting to break loose from the corners of his mouth. Or perhaps, he maintains a generally happy disposition and I am too self-concerned. The world may never know.
He wrapped my ankle slowly and carefully. I winced and formed my fist into a ball in response, my knuckles turning telling shades of white and yellow. His eyes locked in with mine as he folded the last bandage across my foot. He pitied me. My cheeks burned bright red, hot with embarrassment. The corners of Leigh's lips were curling again. I stared at the floor. "Your ride to the hospital is here," he announced. He began wheeling me out to the back alley way behind the building as my friends sheepishly followed behind. I hobbled into the passenger seat of the car. "You'll be okay," he mouthed as we drove away.
The car ride was a blur of passing street lights and toe-curling pain pulsating through my leg. SJ and Hannah sat in the backseat and carried on polite conversation with our driver, who seemed quite concerned about my predicament. Through my peripheral vision, I could feel his eyes darting towards my leg and then my face, assessing the level of my pain. I was determined to choke it all down and appear calm and collected. I hate pity.
We arrived at the emergency center and requested a wheelchair. It never came. I said a sincere thank you to our driver and grabbed onto both of my friends' shoulders. We made our way into the reception area. Each step felt like a knife to the gut. I couldn't be strong anymore. I cried out in pain and inhaled sharply, a well of tears erupting from my eyes. The lady at the front desk had a horrified look on her face as she called over the intercom: "Can someone please get this girl a wheelchair?" It never came.
We turned towards the waiting room doors and a giant man loomed over us, holding open the door with his hand. His features were striking and starkly contrasted the white and cream details of our surroundings. In the span of a few seconds, I took full inventory of his appearance. He had dark hair and brown eyes and a permanently mischievous expression painted across his face. He had fresh scratches on his cheek, dirt on his black and grey tracksuit, and a large, gnarly gash across the top of his hand. Blood spurted out of the opening onto the floor, and my right foot slid across it, barefoot and bloody. I thanked him for holding the door open, especially with his hurt hand, and he nodded kindly. It was an ironic moment. So much blood and chaos and humanity and stillness. I sat down in a stiff chair and let out an exasperated, unusual sound. The room grew silent. I could feel everyone staring.
45 minutes passed. A nurse called me to a room down the hallway. She spoke in a monotone voice and rattled off a list of questions about my visit. I could tell she was so tired. In fact, every health care provider I encountered there was tired. Overworked and underpaid. My nurse brought me crutches and led me to the x-ray room. It was two long, agonizing halls away. I shoved my hands against the rubber of each crutch and tightened my jaw. I can do this.
The nurse walked far ahead and I was left to crutch along by myself. I took the first step and winced. I took another and another and another. There were elderly folks laid in beds all along the hall. Each person was clearly sick, wires and IV's decorating their frail bodies. I made eye contact with each one as I made my way across the floor. I turned a corner and began down the second corridor. Each movement became increasingly more unbearable. I was halfway down the hall when I nearly fell. I jerked upright to maintain my balance and the force sent a jolt of excruciating pain into my ankle. I began to weep uncontrollably. A man, keeping his wife company, jumped up and offered to carry me the rest of the way. I refused. Just a few more steps.
I laid onto the table in the x-ray room and without warning, the technician turned my ankle to get a better picture. I screamed out like a wounded animal, caught in a steel trap somewhere quiet and lonely. I had never heard these kinds of sounds escape from my chest. The technician flinched from the sound and apologized quickly. I left the room and sat in another stiff chair. I am not sure how long it took, but eventually my face was dry again and the tears had subsided. I kept my foot completely still and hovered it above the floor for two hours, while I waited for results. It is amazing what shock and adrenaline can do for you.
The giant man from before came barreling down the hallway. He was angry and determined to let the nurses know. He was speaking in a hurried jumble of broken English and a language I did not know. The nurses were working to calm him down. He started pacing around next to me, so I tapped him on his giant man shoulder and asked where he was from. He looked down at me with a confused look and said "Georgia… like Armenia but better." I laughed and then motioned to my ankle, using my hands to explain that it was broken. I then pointed to my face, calm and almost content. I pointed to his face and mimicked him being angry and yelling. I instructed him to be calm.
Despite the language barrier, he understood me perfectly. He let out a giant man laugh and his eyes softened, revealing a secret, inner friendliness. He admitted, "you are right." I smiled satisfactorily. "I know", I whispered. The giant man was relaxed the rest of the time. We were carrying on conversation, with the help of Google translate, when an old, tan, and wrinkled man rolled by in a wheelchair. I was jealous of his transportation. His nurse pushed him right in front of me and he winked as he continued on. It was so absurd that I couldn't help but laugh. I winced again, remembering my ankle.
The man in the wheelchair came back ten minutes later, this time without his nurse. He joined in on our group conversation and quickly asserted that he was Romanian and did not speak English. A few more words exchanged, and we realized our mutual understanding of Italian. I explained my injury, he made fun of my intermediate Italian, and then explained his own injury. He was riding his bicycle earlier that night and had been hit by a BUS. All of our mouths flew open in disbelief. He chuckled and flaunted his cuts and casts. He was proud to have survived it. I don't blame him.
"Mattison?," called the nurse. We walked into the nearest room and I sat down slowly on the plush table. The nurse sighed and said frankly, "yeah it's really bad." I looked at her intently, waiting for her to finish. "You broke it in three places. You will most likely need surgery." Our mouths flew open again. I laid my head down and stared at the ceiling. My friends and the nurse were talking back and forth around me, but it sounded like white noise.
My time abroad was over. My flight to France in 3 weeks- cancelled. My life in London, my friends, the sweet Australian man I was just beginning to like, the kids I nanny, my favorite coffee shop across from the British Museum, the coat I left at a flat in Kensington, that restaurant in Notting Hill I still wanted to try, an unfinished monopoly game, the black cat named Bells that greets me on my daily walk, a going away celebration- all slipping through my fingers with the utterance of two sentences. A single tear slid down my cheek and suddenly my ankle did not hurt in the slightest. How could it, when a much deeper, guttural pain brewed in the pit of my stomach?
They put on a temporary cast and sent me on my way. I crutched outside the hospital and breathed deeply. The giant man was nearby, smoking a cigarette. I looked at him with pleading eyes, and without a word, he passed me two sticks and a lighter. He insisted that I keep it all. I lit the end and tobacco filled my mouth and then my lungs. I exhaled the smoke and it dissipated slowly into the night sky. I said goodbye to England then and there.
The next day, I laid in an empty hotel room, belonging to my American friends. I encouraged them to explore the city and not worry about me. My London girls, Anouk and Danae, came to visit, bearing pastries and long faces. Things would never be the same and we knew it. The two of them sat on the floor, eating and giggling and sharing their customary weekly updates. I just watched them quietly, trying to soak in the sweetness of the moment, trying to make it pass just a little bit slower. But time is a cruel machine that waits for nothing and no one. They commented on how unreasonable and unthinkable it was that I would be leaving the country so suddenly. I thought for a moment and said assuredly, "It's burnt toast guys. It'll be okay."
"Huh?," they questioned in unison. I explained confidently. "It's the idea that the inconveniences we experience in life are either helping us to avoid something detrimental or pushing us towards something wonderful." They blinked at me quizzically. "Okay imagine that you wake up in the morning and put two pieces of perfectly good bread in the toaster. Now imagine that they burn. You're pissed. You make new toast. This causes you to miss your usual bus to work. Guess what? That bus crashed that day. You avoided disaster. Even better, imagine you decided to walk that day and happened to run into the love of your life. Either way- you are always exactly where you need to be. Life is always working in your favor. Burnt toast." They both looked at me with big, toothy grins- half believing, half doubting.
I blinked and we were packed into another Uber, heading to my host house. The man in the driver's seat asked about my cast. I gave him the short version, focusing on everything I was being forced to leave behind. He listened intently, empathizing with my disappointment. He let me finish complaining and said casually, "You will be okay. You have something much bigger waiting for you. It's burnt toast theory." My friends giggled in the back seat. "Exactly," I agreed under my breath, while staring out the car window and allowing my tears to fall as they desperately needed to.
I thought to myself. How wonderful it is to miss a place before even leaving. How miraculous, to have found such true companions in such a short time frame. How rare to be a part of something so glorious- even if just for a fleeting moment, even if you have to let it go. How special and affirming to have had the opportunity to follow my heart across the ocean and come back forever changed and inspired.
It's like I said before: life is a mystery- a cosmic web of chaos and endless possibilities and second chances and fateful encounters and big, beautiful things behind our comprehension. I cannot pretend to know what this broken ankle is leading me towards, but for now all I can do is make more toast, try again each morning, and have faith that I am on the right path.