Issue 22: What It Feels Like to Break a Bone, Part 2

Welcome to October, the spooooookiest month of the year!

I spent some of last night getting Halloween decorations set up. This may be the most effort I’ve ever put into such things.

While I enjoy Halloween, my costumes are often thrown together at the last minute or are obscure pop culture references that don’t require a lot of work. Think Wayne from Wayne’s World or Clint Eastwood in a suit holding an empty chair.

Side note: Do you remember when Eastwood talked to an empty chair in 2012 and that seemed crazy? How far we’ve come.

In any case, one of the defining Halloween tropes is a skeleton. We see ’em all over the place, whether it’s a hayride or a David S. Pumpkins sketch.

With all those bones just hanging out in the wild, you’ve probably come across a skeleton with at least one broken bone.

Heck, I’ve broken multiple bones and I supposedly have protective layers of skin and muscle on top of me, while a skeleton is going it alone from here.

I’ve shared one of those stories before. However, to properly start October off on the right foot (because I broke my foot before, get it?!) I’d also like to share the story of how I broke my wrist.

Buckle up — it’s gonna be a bumpy flight.

When I broke my foot, I knew something was wrong almost immediately. It was near the end of the game, it felt like my shoe had snapped in half, and every step hurt.

Breaking my wrist felt different. It happened at the very start of the game. At least, I think it did, because I can only remember one time during the game when I fell down. And while you can break your foot by stepping incorrectly, I don’t believe you can break your wrist simply from waving it around or holding it by your side. So, I feel like it had to have happened at this one specific part of the game.

I made a basket on our first possession, so the other team thought I was the top player on the team. This is rarely a correct assumption, but hey, I’ll take the additional praise every once in a while. Unfortunately, because I was the best player on the team, the opponents were a little more aggressive.

On our next possession, the ball got knocked loose and was rolling around on the ground. It was right there in front of me, so I reached over to pick it up. At that exact moment, I was pushed in the back by someone from the other team. I’m not sure if he fell into me or was reaching for the ball and shoved me instead, or if he was just a jerk who was like “hey, let me push this fella in the spine and make him tumble to the floor.”

Whatever the case may be, I went flying like a samba-dancing monkey. But I didn’t even notice my hand hitting the ground. No, I was much more concerned by my face smacking the court. Perhaps you’ve been able to go your whole life without walking into something face-first, or getting slapped, or tripping and falling. If so, I applaud you for your lack of clumsiness. You are a more competent soul than I am.

At no point during the game did I think my wrist—or any part of my hand—was broken. I played through the entire game. While I don’t remember the final score, I’m pretty sure we won by 100 and I had 56 points and 32 rebounds. That sounds about right.

It wasn’t until I was in the parking lot walking back to my car when I noticed I couldn’t turn my wrist in one direction. It was as if whenever I tried to look at my watch (you know, if I was wearing one), I instead was met with someone attempting to yank my wrist out of its socket.

I didn’t much appreciate that, but after a few minutes of moving my wrist back and forth, staring at it in awe like I had just discovered my hand, the sobering realization had set in. Something was wrong.

Once again, though, I thought perhaps I could sleep it off. However, when I woke up in crippling pain, I scheduled an emergency visit to the hand doctor. The main reason for this emergency visit was that I was flying the next day and figured I should get the ol’ wrist looked at before the flight. (Note to self: Stop breaking bones before vacations.)

The hand doctor was like, “YES, your wrist is CERTAINLY broken” and gave me a fun little cast to put on. And by fun, I mean “immediately, irritatingly itchy.”

I had never worn a cast before, so it’s kind of interesting to see how they do it. They put the actual cast on you, which is a mold soaked in a special fluid to help it harden, and then they wrap it in a colorful tape, giving your cast the ability to be signed. They even let me pick the tape, and I said black because I subconsciously did NOT want anyone to sign my cast. I’m such a rebel.

I should also point out that I was stopped in the security line at the airport both times because of my cast. This is surely some sort of broken bone discrimination, but I guess it’s easy to slip something in there, so I understand the need for caution. I’m just glad they didn’t catch the piece of the ruler that broke off when I was trying to scratch my itch inside the cast.

Spectacularly, I did still get a few signatures on my cast, because once someone had a white Sharpie handy. I will no longer scoff at how preposterous it seems to have a white Sharpie. That person knew there was a use for it, and they made the most of it.

Either way, a broken foot or wrist both take about two months to heal. If you’re going to break a bone between the two, I would opt for your foot over your wrist, because a walking boot is a lot easier to maneuver than an inflexible cast.

But again, I wouldn’t recommend breaking either. I’m just saying, if you find yourself in some kind of Sophie’s Choice situation and you HAD to pick one, the foot is a little less cumbersome. Except when you’re driving. Then you have to take the boot off or they’d really call you lead foot.

Finally, I no longer drink milk every day, so I wonder if that’s played a part in my bone blues as an adult. Remember to get your calcium!

That’s all ’til next time. Thanks for reading!

Joey

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