One of the more bizarre and hilarious events of my recent past occurred right here in little ole’ Stayton, Ore. I should mention that this particular hilarity involves hospitals. Don’t be weirded out; it is at least relatively entertaining.
Background: Since I came home from college I made a commitment to get back in touch with my health after a slightly longer-than-necessary hiatus during the academic year. I had some poundage and needed to cover some groundage: I began running.
Now, at first this foray into the world of cardiovascular health was quite the thorn in my side, but, eventually, after significant discomfort , I was running every day, 4 to 5 miles up and down hills and starting to get really into exercise. Everything was going just swimmingly until I decided, for reasons unfounded and unintelligent, to go running in the dark. Look, I’ll be frank with you here: I know myself. I am not coordinated and really shouldn’t have been attempting something as potentially dangerous as running after dark, but despite everyone’s better judgment I set out to battle the bulge in the evening hours.
The catastrophe came at a nondescript chunk of sidewalk on Shaff Road, ironically, at the base of hospital hill. I tripped over a miniscule incline and went flying. I broke the fall with my spindly wrist and began rolling on the ground.
My arm hurrrrrrrrt. I gasped for breath and sprawled out on somebody’s lawn. After a minute or two I decided to get up and walk it off in the style of tough-love football coaches.
I headed to my buddy Lauren’s house where she took pity on me and drove me home. My dad greeted me with an “I told you so” that seemed to fly off his lips. Lame. My arm hurt like a raging stallion trapped in a cardboard box but I attempted sleep anyway (it’s here that I should tell you I am kind of proud of my pain threshold), only to awake an hour later in severe discomfort. I woke up my poor dad and off we went to the ER…
The Stayton ER is a funky place at 4 a.m. on a Sunday. Cops are hanging around wearing blue gloves and the coffee available is entitled “Trucker Blend,” but everyone is really nice. I talked to a nurse and doctor, had some x-rays taken, and, when the pain became so unbearable not even I, Madeline, cousin of the Incredible Hulk, could take it, I received one shiny little jewel of a perkaset. They didn’t know if it was a sprain or a fracture. I was sent home with an unwieldy sling and instructions to “take it easy.”
For the next couple of days I dealt with my arm like an annoying little brother. I didn’t try to appease it with treats like ibuprofen, but didn’t make it do anything too taxing. My friends were slightly concerned, particularly one who’s training to be a paramedic.
“Uhh… I’m sorry to tell you this, but I really think it’s broken,” he stated. I was sure it would heal up in no time.
That was not the first time I’ve had to swallow some words in my life, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I returned to the hospital two days later to speak with a radiologist about the funkiness happening in what used to be a pretty cool arm. He told me promptly it was indeed a fracture and I needed to see a specialist; and then came the exciting part – a cast!
Prior to this I never had a broken bone. I tried to sit still as the doctor coiled some lime green (of course I’d pick lime green!) strips around the injured party but the whole thing was just too exciting. I began to text everyone I know, “I broke my arm!!!” And then I started to laugh.
Here I was, trying to get fit again, but instead had fractured my arm. When I tried to get it fixed they weren’t sure what to do with it. I had been living with a broken limb for the past two days, and now I was wearing a chunk of plaster-y bandages the color of Kermit the frog: Life is funny like that.
Should you see the green limb hanging around, please do be sure to say hi. He really loves the attention. Unfortunately, we have to share it as I’m kind of stuck to him.
