My Broken Arm

It’s a weird thing being a boy sometimes.

That’s not sometimes like sometimes I’m a boy and sometimes I’m a girl – just to clarify because there has been confusion in the past (see “Bitchtits”)

Looking back and thinking about all the dumb things I would think about – that’s some inception type shit – like “I wonder if I jump off the garage how much trouble I would get in” or “Man I wish I had stitches, that would be so bad-ass” or “the jumping off the garage part was fun but stitches kind of suck.”

I remember distinctly wondering what it was like to have a broken bone. There was something inside my head that made me think that would create more legitimacy to my masculinity if I had a cast. Plus a cast is like a mini yearbook and you can always tell who the popular kids are by the amount they charged for ad space.

If Michelle Obama was around as a kid I could’ve charged TOP dollar as the “before” kid for her “Let’s Move” campaign. For the “after” they would’ve gotten some much sexier redhead and paid my parents to move to a new school district so I couldn’t put the program to shame by accidentally walking into an assembly I was purposely not invited to.

One of the few days a month I would exercise was when we would play baseball at the cemetery. Playing there kind of put a new meaning to the saying “he hit the ball to dead center.”

We obviously didn’t play where the tombstones were, that would be annoying and probably open up some weird vortex and unleash a zombie apocalypse, because we all know zombies hate baseball.

Anyway, I’m getting off track.

For some reason this kid named Andrew, we already didn’t get along, threw a tennis ball at me and it made me mad. My first, and only, reaction was to charge at him like a bull charges a matador who is swinging that stupid cape around – WHO HAS A CAPE?

When I reached Andrew I picked him up over my head and he grabbed hold. When I went to put him back down – the only thing I could do was lift him up, I had NO plan after that – he continued to hold on to my head and we both fell to the ground. HARD.


Apparently breaking a bone sounds a lot like breaking a branch in half. The pain shooting up my right arm at the time wasn’t an indication that something serious had happened.

However, I was still in a lot of pain and apparently rolling on the floor crying means your friends should come over to you and start punching you in your broken arm while calling you a “pussy.”

One of my friends decided that maybe this was a little more serious than others thought and he said, “my mom’s a nurse, let’s go talk to her.”

Side note: I realized after the events that transpired between Andrew and myself that I was playing first base so he had a reason to throw the ball to me.

We venture to his mom who diagnoses it as a fracture and then we are on our way to bowling. Because when you have a fractured arm it’s smart to bowl with that arm.

I realized it wasn’t smart to bowl with that arm when I got to the bowling alley and picked up a drink and my arm shifted involuntarily. I sincerely wish I could show you what I meant because what you are thinking is not as horrifying as it was when it happened.

“Guess I’m bowling with my left arm!”

Those words ACTUALLY poured out of my mouth.

And then I did bowl with my left arm…and did horribly!

About a week and a half later I couldn’t really move my arm that well and we decided to go to an orthopedic doctor to get a third opinion. While my friends mom said it was a fracture, my DOCTOR said it was a bad sprain.

No one was concerned about the involuntary shift of my arm in this situation.

When we get the x-ray back we find that my Radius bone is broken so bad that it is touching my Ulna.

Take a second and think about that.

So I get it set and put into a cast and I’m sent out into the summer sun being told by a nurse that I can’t get the cast wet at all.

A few days later I jump into a pool without anything covering my cast because what I learned at that time was that nurses don’t know what they are talking about.



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