I watched a YouTube video about a man born without arms or legs. His upbeat attitude was so inspirational, especially since I read it with a broken left arm. Since a week has passed, I’ve learned to do a lot using my (dominant) right hand. The fact that I broke my arm in the first place is what really pisses me off.
I’ve been on prednisone for sixteen years. It’s caused all kinds of havoc with my body, including massive weight gain, a cataract in my right eye, and, most important, osteoporosis, especially in my limber spine. No one mentioned my left radius bone (one of the two bones in your forearm). I received the new osteoporosis medication, Reclast, which is given once a year by intravenous method. Off I went, amping up my water physical therapy and losing weight slowly.
So it was with less pain and better endurance that I planned a road trip from New Jersey to visit a couple girlfriends in northern Florida. My husband had scheduled himself to work over my son’s entire spring break, and I didn’t want my son to spend six days in front of his video games. It was April first when my son and I left New Jersey, in a joyful mood. Our mood clouded a bit when we hit traffic at a near crawl, from Baltimore south.
After D.C., we saw a sign for Starbucks. I have a real Starbucks addiction. I could go a whole day on cafe lattes. So we got off the exit and followed the signs, but no Starbucks. “That’s okay,” I thought to myself, “I’m sure there will be one at the next exit.” But, not wanting to waste the stop, I decided to get gas. I pulled into a gas station and walked toward the cashier to pay for my gas.
I was so busy admiring the flowers that I didn’t see the foot-tall curb and tripped over it. I landed on a cement walk and instinctly put my left arm out to brace my fall. Excruciating pain followed. I tried to blow it off, but it was obvious to me, and my eleven-year-old, that this was more than just a bruise. That, and the loud crack I heard when I hit the sidewalk.
My son’s behavior surprised me most of all. He was the one who remembered we had ice packs in our Igloo. He was the one who demanded, not suggested, that we get off at the next exit with an “H” on its sign. While I drove, he googled the next hospital. His “H” is different from my “H.” I was an RN for twenty-seven years, mostly in trauma and critical-care areas. I want to know the most I can about a hospital before being a patient there. But by asking for God’s favor, I ended up at Stanton Hospital, a new and well-equipped hospital with a kind and respective staff. I figured that when the ER tech came in with a half-cast, I was lucky! No major break here!
Wrong. The half-cast was to support my radial head, which was practically sheared off during the fall. It’s a rather rare injury; my orthopedic surgeon says he’s seen maybe three or four in his career. Needless to say, our spring fling ended the same day it started. But the ride home was a hell of a lot worse than the ride down. And next Monday, I get a new radial head. I wonder if I’ll set off metal detectors. Now that’s the spirit!
