My 13-year-old Fake Granddaughter, the real granddaughter of significant other, The Yard Sale Queen, asked how I got the boo boo on my left arm.
Well, it’s a long and painful story. Or stories.
On July 5, I broke my wrist. Yes, it hurt. A lot.
People who saw me in a black but removable cast asked what happened. I offered three scenarios.
One story I related involved me being a hero and rescuing my friend who I was visiting at his “River House” near the Potomac River.
We were taking the boat out to sightsee. With one foot on the dock and the other on the boat that suddenly began to drift away from the dock, my friend began to do a split. An old man doing splits is not a pretty sight.
Fearing that he would lose his balance and either fall into the water or hit his head on the dock as he fell, I raced to his aid. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him backward toward the dock. As we fell, I instinctively put my left hand back to brace our fall. He landed on me, unscathed. I was not so lucky.
Another story concerned The Yard Sale Queen. I was told when we started dating more than 11 years ago that she had a hard head. As I was telling a story and gesticulating wildly, my wrist accidently made contact with her head. She was dazed. I was hurt.
The third story had me and my friend, with the house on the river, sightseeing the area with his two dogs sleeping in the backseat of his GMC Envoy and my 7-pound Yorkie named Zoey standing on my left leg taking it all in. When we returned to the house, I grabbed Zoey and stepped out. My left leg had fallen asleep, causing me to stumble and fall.
The dog went flying, my hand hit the asphalt. There I sat with my friend repeatedly asking if I was OK. I am not sure what part of NO I wasn’t OK he didn’t get.
In any event, no matter which story you believe, my hand painfully throbbed and began to swell. I didn’t see Tweety Birds but everything that was white was brilliantly white with no defined edges. I almost passed out.
So off I went to an urgent care center. Holding my battered and throbbing left wrist in the air, I introduced myself and explained to the receptionist what had happened. Of course, they wanted insurance information and identification.
“Um, are you left or right handed?” the receptionist sheepishly asked, handing me a clipboard loaded with forms.
She was worried that I would fill them out with unreadable Hieroglyphics or even worse, she would have to fill them out. She breathed a sigh of relief as I told her I was right handed.
The nice doctor diagnosed my injury as a non-displaced fractured wrist, meaning no resetting the break or surgery. Fitted with a temporary splint, I was sent on my way to suffer.
Two days later, I was in a local orthopedic surgeon’s office for more x-rays and being fitted with the fashionable black hard plastic removable cast.
Six weeks later, the cast came off and time to work out the kinks in my wrist from lack of use.
“I can retire this cast?” I asked the doctor, gleefully waving it in the air.
“Yeah,” he said. “Until you break your wrist again.”
If he ever retires from practice, he can always be a standup comic.
No matter which story you accept, I am on the mend after suffering my first broken bone. The Yard Sale Queen was a great nurse, while I whined, moaned and played helpless. You know, generally acted like a man.