{Prompt: Write about a time you broke... a) a bone, b) a heart, c) a law, d) a promise.}
The Time I Broke My Wrist
(or Why 3rd Grade Was the Worst Year of My Life)
At that point in my life, I was a timid, anxious, precocious child, not far from entering puberty. I had friends, although I wasn't terribly popular. I was coming into my own of realizing that I had a high aptitude for academics, much to the chagrin of many of my classmates, who used every chance they could to copy my homework. It was the first year that Emily wasn't attending Pioneer. I was in a tough place, emotionally. My teacher, Mrs. Vandergriff, was in her first year of teaching, and my class was not good to her. She wasn't always the most pleasant person either, if we're being totally honest. Personally, I wasn't happy during third grade at all.
It was the day of the school Thanksgiving dinner. Most of my friends' parents joined them for lunch, but my parents weren't able to because of their work schedule. I was pretty bummed, but I knew that they were doing what they needed to do at that point. After lunch, we got a long recess, which was nice! One of the privileges of going to third grade was that we were finally allowed to use the monkey bars, so my classmates and I took every chance we could to use them. I was never particularly adventurous on them, as I lacked upper body strength and was a big scaredy-cat, always worrying about what would go wrong or being mocked by my peers for my failed attempts.
That day, the playground dare was to jump from a low bar (that we stood on) to the high bar across from it. It was a span of no more than 3 feet. Nowadays, that'd be nothing. For third graders, that was on par with attempting to pole vault. I forded off the pleas of my friends, telling me that I should do it and that nothing would go wrong. I persisted in not wanting to do it. Eventually, I was sick of them begging me to try, so I went for it. It took lots of nudging, but I finally jumped! As I flew through the air, my stomach jumped, like when going on a rollercoaster. Seconds later, I grasped the bar. I did it! I stuck the landing! I was so proud of myself! My friends cheered in elation!
That is how the story was supposed to end. Here's how it actually ended.
I did stick the landing for a split second, but in my nervousness, my palms were pretty sweaty, and my hands slipped right off the bar. I slid down into the pea gravel that covered the ground, landing in such a way that I felt a huge rush of pain in my right wrist. I screamed in pain, but I (shockingly) didn't cry. My friends didn't know what to say or do, but someone eventually ran to get a teacher. The teacher escorted me to the office, where Mrs. Klassen called my mom. My mom was running the long mail route that day, which meant that she couldn't get to the school in a timely manner. Gina was busy doing something, so she couldn't come take me to the doctor. My dad got off work at 2 and would be able to come get me then, so I waited on the benches by the front door. Shea (one of my good friends)'s mom was there for the dinner, so she stuck around and sat with me while I waited for my dad. She let me lay on her lap and rest. I felt a little sick to my stomach.
My dad finally arrived and took me directly to the hospital to have an x-ray performed. It hurt a lot, and I probably wasn't very cooperative. Afterwards, we went back to my doctor's office, where we'd get the verdict (and probably a cast). I equal parts wanted a cast (so everyone could sign it), and wanted my arm to not be broken. The result was as everyone expected--a hairline fracture in my wrist. The prognosis was a cast that would hopefully be able to be removed by Christmas. It went from my knuckles all the way up to 3 inches above my elbow (to speed up healing and help with immobilization). I was depressed at my new lack of independence. And I was in lots of pain. Did I mention I'm right handed? I got lots of quick lessons in how to do everything (eat, brush my teeth and hair, wipe myself, and bathe) with my rarely used left hand. I wanted to miss school the next day, but no one could stay with me, so off to school I went. I was told that Emily would come by mid-morning with a sling for me, as we weren't able to find one the night before.
I took a Sharpie with me to school the next day, anticipating everyone wanting to sign my cast, which they did. I was hoping to see Mrs. Vandergriff and tell her everything (and maybe get a little sympathy). Instead, we had a substitute teacher that day. She didn't believe anyone's story that I had just broken my wrist the day before and wouldn't let anyone sign my cast when I walked into the classroom. She also insisted (rather harshly) that I do the worksheet that she passed out for everyone to do--one of our first cursive lessons. I didn't know how to write in cursive right-handed, let alone left-handed, so I was beside myself. My friends offered some support, but they were quickly thwarted by the substitute. At some point in the morning, we were allowed one bathroom break. We would go in groups of 3 or 4 to the bathroom and take turns. During my turn, Emily happened to show up, so she spotted me, and took me to the office with Mrs. Klassen, saving her the time of having to call me out of class.
I was given a gray sling and some Tylenol. It was my first time taking adult Tylenol (the pills you have to swallow, not chew), and no one told me that. It was terrible, and it didn't really help. I felt really sick to my stomach, so Mrs. Klassen allowed me to sit by the office until my stomach settled. She got me some saltines from the cafeteria in the meantime to help me feel better. The sling was a nice touch that made my new cast not seem quite as heavy. At some point, the substitute marched down to the office and insisted that I return to class at that exact moment, telling me I was in trouble for not letting her know where I was. She did not listen to my story of what happened and did not even talk to Mrs. Klassen about the incident. It was frustrating, and I just wanted to cry. I probably did at some point. I felt hopeless.
The next day my teacher returned to school, and she was about as sympathetic as I'd hoped she'd be. She didn't say anything about the office debacle, and we moved on with life. She was a little more understanding of my cursive writing (and really just my writing in general) looking atrocious.
I also remember that year was the year my class sang in the annual Christmas program. We happened to sing "Holly Jolly Christmas". During the line that said, "kiss her once for me," we were supposed to move our arms as though we were blowing a kiss. When we sang the song at the program, my mom later informed me that I almost took out the kid behind me with my cast! Oops!
During the time I had my cast on, my mom fixed my hair in lots of pig tails. I also found out that I was unable to wear a lot of jackets and long-sleeved shirts I usually could wear, due to the cast. I became pretty creative in learning ways to scratch itches under my cast. (Pencils and the metal handles of fly swatters worked well.) By the end of me being in the cast, I also mastered writing (and doing everything else) left-handed. I actually was ambidextrous for a short while afterwards. Had I continued practicing, I could probably still have the same skill level. (I was so happy to be able to do everything right-handed that I quickly left my left-handed skills in the dust.)
Not long after I was out of the cast, we were in the ice storm that left us with no power for a little over a month. It wasn't a great time in my life, but I can somewhat laugh about it now.
[Be on the lookout for parts b-d later on! This was fun!]
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