Breaking an Arm

My wife Denise has suggested that I tell the story of how I broke my arm. The moral of this story is that 13 year old boys can be really mean, and we should be careful what we wish for.

When I was a kid, I remember being envious of those lucky people who had casts. They seemed to get special attention from teachers, and the accumulating signatures on their casts stood as monuments to their popularity. I remember thinking while ski-ing as a kid that breaking an arm would be totally worth it if it meant that I got to wear a cast.

On November 28th of last year (2009), at my son Aidan's 13th birthday party, I got my wish. Because the rain had let up, and because it was not too dark (where we live in Canada it is dark by 3:30 PM at the end of November), we decided to head up to our local field and play some football. It was decided that we would not play 'tackle', nor would we play 'two hand touch', but rather an odd sort of 'holding for two seconds' style of football. Despite the fact that we had on our team a boy who had never played football (it should be noted that he is a brilliant soccer player), and another kid whose strengths perhaps lay elsewhere, we were able to score. With our team ahead 14-7, Aidan (QB of the other team) threw the ball to Collin, and I managed to grab and hold Collin. However, Collin is a big and strong 13 year old, and in and around 2 seconds, he was able to fling me off. I broke my fall with my right hand hitting the ground at an odd angle, and as I landed, I could feel the bones in my wrist snap. While lying there, I looked up and watched Collin run into the endzone, and then dance around a bit before spiking the ball in celebration. I then announced that I had broken my arm, got up and began heading home. The last thing I heard before leaving the field was: 'Dad, do you mind if we finish the game?'. When I got back home, Denise took me to the hospital, and after an X-ray, the 'Colles' fracture was adjusted and set in plaster.


Let me tell you this: at 48, a cast is not fun. For 7 1/2 weeks I lived with an awkward, unwieldy cast. I bonked Denise in the head twice while we were sleeping, and after about a week the dead skin under the cast began to smell. The itchiness of the skin under the cast made the final three weeks a living hell, and I devised all sorts of tools to penetrate under the cast. When the cast came off, my arm looked deformed, skinny, weak, pasty, and covered in scratches and scar tissue where I had scratched just a bit too hard. As for signatures on the cast, yes, there were those. However, they are perhaps best represented by Kira's, which read: "Daddy, your cast smells, Love Kira". She wrote it in loud pink Sharpie, right at the bottom of the cast where everyone could see it. As time went on, her proclamation to everyone became less and less necessary, perhaps in a way similar to someone painting the word 'Long' on China's Great Wall, 'Tall' on the CN tower, 'Red' on Shawn White's hair. I remember at one point a dog smelling my cast, turning, and quickly loping away, and babies would cry for no apparent reason. Denise, out of the blue, bought highly scented candles. In total, instead of the 'special attention' I had dreamed about as a kid, my cast seemed to evoke jokes at my expense, as well as flat-out derision. Sigh.

About a month ago I had the cast removed. Since then, I am no longer itchy, and by comparison my arm smells like so many pretty flowers outside a perfume factory on a fresh, spring day. My flexibility and strength are returning, and I am able, more or less, to meet the bi-weekly goals set for me by my physiotherapist. I can now write and throw a frisbee, two days ago I ski-ed, and yesterday I played goal (adequately) in a soccer game. It seems the inconvenience, pain, awkwardness, and indignities of having a cast are behind me now. However, at 48, perhaps such things have only just begun: I look forward to incontinence and Alzheimer's.