Anyone who’s broken a bone will tell you that there’s
something absolutely unnatural about it. Sprinting through the unmown grass in
the deserted baseball field in front of our house, my first signal that
something wasn’t quite right was the resounding CRACK!
Falling, my shoulder imprinting on
the soft, moist ground on that sunny April day, my older brother running past
in his soccer cleats with the ball; all of this happening before I knew the
reason for it. It was my leg.
Oddly, as I sat there in the jersey
I had chosen to wear to soccer try-outs that day, what I felt most wasn’t pain;
it was panic. What? Why? How? What do I do? These questions racing through my mind
while I tried in vain to reassemble the once-sturdy object that had been my
left leg. My leg, that moments before had been strongly propelling me forward,
was now just a bag of Jell-O and sticks. My heart racing and head pounding;
sweat, that had begun while I ran, was now fueled by alarm.
My brother running back to me
saying something I couldn’t quite make out was the first sign that my hearing
had gone all funny. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?” The words were muffled
and seemed to ignite a loud ringing that I hadn’t noticed before. My eyes stung
as he stood over me questioningly, red-faced in front of the sun. “What
happened?” He asked again. Such a simple question that I could hardly
concentrate enough to answer. My whole body shook, and my mouth felt full of
sand as I tried to form the words: “I think my leg is broken. Go get Mom.”
Even as I sat in that field,
itching from the grass and the bugs, my head was swimming so much that I
couldn’t wrap my mind around what had happened. I heard my brother yelling in
the distance as he ran to the house. It was so far away. How would I ever make
it across the field? Maybe if I could scoot backwards, I could get there. STARS,
JELL-O, NAUSEA; these sickening reminders of why I should not move my leg
became all too clear as I tried moving ever so slightly towards the house.
Then, they were there; my mom and
brother were right next to me. How had they gotten there so quickly? They
decided to carry me to the car as I held my leg close trying not to move it
even the slightest bit. I tried helping with my good leg, but it was a struggle
regardless as my 14-year-old brother and mom half-carried-half-dragged 12-year-old
me to the waiting car.
When we
made it to the hospital, they had put me on a table and cut-off my brand-new,
Adidas shin-guards to look at my leg. The nurse came to place an I.V. and I
looked away only to feel a slight poke. Seeing my elbow in a small pool of
blood on the sheet was a shock as I decided to turn back. Then they told me
that they needed me to extend my leg that I had been holding so dearly, close
to my body. My bones rolled around like bowling pins as I straightened it for
the first time since the crack.
Even years later, I’ve always
thought the worst part was the waiting. Waiting as my mom parked the car, ran
back into the house, and tried to call someone to come watch my siblings.
Waiting and wincing over every bump as we drove across town (and the railroad
tracks) to the hospital. Waiting while the doctors talked and talked and then
finally gave me something for the pain. And lastly, waiting to go home and
sleep. It is an experience that I will never forget, and I remember it like it
was yesterday.
