My new blog friend, MJ Monaghan, recently wrote a post about “boys will be boys” accident he had when he was a child.
It reminded me of all the injuries and mishaps my brother and I had when we were children. At the time, they didn’t seem to be so many or frequent, but in retrospect, we must have driven our parents crazy. We were a walking (or not so walking) orthopedic ward.
My brother and I are the oldest of five children. When we were growing up, most of our mother’s time and attention was consumed by our three younger sisters. Once we left the house in search of friends and activities, we were pretty much on our own, without the benefit or the burden of parental supervision.
We lived in a small and fairly isolated neighborhood that was surrounded by hills, woods and some old farm fields. There really wasn’t much opportunity to cause trouble. However, there were plenty of opportunities to cause damage to ourselves, and we took full advantage of them. From the time we were nine or ten to our early teens, we accumulated:
Me: Fractured arm, fractured foot, dislocated shoulder, stiches in my head (courtesy of a hammer wielded by my brother), and a cut leg that required stitches
Brother: Badly fractured humerus (upper arm), fractured finger, sprained ankle
These were all acquired in the course of playing sports, climbing trees or generally screwing around. Looking back on it, I wonder how many of those injuries started with someone saying, “I’ll bet you can’t…”
We kept our family physicians busy. In fact, one of our regular physicians was, not surprisingly, an orthopedic surgeon.
When I was in ninth grade, a bunch of us were “studio wrestling” in a friend’s front yard. One of our larger kids picked me up over his shoulder and dropped me. I landed on my right shoulder, It did not seem to be broken, but my arm just sort-of hung there. Seeing it was a Sunday, my mother suggested I go to school the next day and show the shoulder to the PE teacher/coach.
“Oh my God, son. You have a broken clavicle. Why haven’t you already been to a doctor?” he asked.
So I called Mom and gave her the report. She said she would call ahead to the orthopedic surgeon’s office. I should walk the few blocks down the street to his office and report to him. If needed, my father would come collect me later.
When I walked in the door, the receptionist just looked up and asked, “All right, Poolman, what did you do this time?” Let’s just say, we didn’t need an introduction.
As it turned out, I may have dislocated the shoulder, but it was back in place and there wasn’t much for him to do, except to tell me not to be throwing any balls around, or doing any studio wrestling for a while. Eventually, my dad did come to collect me and, I assume, to pay the bill.
That was my last injury that required medical treatment until I was introduced to the joys and perils of motorcycle riding after I graduated from college. That is a story for another day.