I’ve heard people say that just one second can change your entire life. Unfortunately, the past week has taught me just how true that is.
Last Sunday, I spent three hours shoveling the remnants of a storm that dumped eight inches of snow on the area. The next morning, I felt great – not an ache or a pain anywhere.
“Not bad for an old lady," I smugly thought as I walked down my driveway to get the mail.
The next thing I knew, I was flat on the asphalt…on my left hip. My legs had slipped right out from underneath me – sideways – on a patch of black ice. As I lay there, convinced I’d broken my hip, I saw, as if in slow motion, my left arm also come crashing down on the driveway, as if it had decided to do it as an afterthought.
Only this time, I heard a crack that sounded like someone attacking a lobster-claw dinner.
I’m no expert when it comes to human anatomy, but I was pretty sure any cracking sound wasn’t a good thing for a body (especially an old one) to make.
I stood up and tested my hip. It felt sore but it worked fine. Then I checked my arm. It hurt and it didn't work fine. It might have had something to with the fact my wrist was shaped like a letter S.
“Noooo!” I cried as I dashed into the house. "It will be fine! It's only a sprain – or maybe a dislocation that can just be popped back into place."
But as the wrist continued to puff up until it resembled a flesh-colored, giant marshmallow, I began to think getting it checked out might be a wise idea, just to be safe. At least one small favor, though - it was my left hand and I'm right-handed.
So I called one of my friends, who said she’d be over in 20 minutes to drive me to the urgent-care clinic.
That’s when I realized I still was wearing my flannel pajamas under my coat. Even worse, I wasn’t wearing a bra. I rushed to make myself look less like a bag-lady.
“Rushed,” however, turned out to be a misnomer. Trying to get dressed while using only one arm, I quickly learned, was next to impossible. The two worst tasks involved my bra and my jeans. I couldn’t hook the bra or zip and button the jeans. Neither could I tie back my straggly hair, which was hanging in my face.
The minute my friend stepped into the house, I, feeling totally panicked by then, practically shouted at her, “Quick! Help me hook my bra and zip my jeans!”
She grabbed the sides of my jeans and yanked them up so hard, I felt as if I’d just been given what teens like to refer to as an atomic wedgie. She then fastened them, ran a brush through my hair and tied it back, and hooked my bra. I felt as if I were back in kindergarten again, needing someone to dress me…well, except for the bra part, that is.
I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and put it on my ballooning wrist, and we were off.
Surprisingly, the urgent-care clinic wasn't busy and I was seen within 15 minutes. By then, my wrist was feeling as if someone were learning how to play the drums on it – using a pair of chisels. My blood pressure, which usually is 111 over 76, was 169 over 90. I then had x-rays taken.
The physician’s assistant came into the room and asked to see my wrist. I removed the ice pack and he blurted out, “Oh, sh*t!”
I cracked up because he immediately looked so embarrassed
and profusely apologized. But then I thought, “Why am I laughing? His reaction
obviously means I’m doomed!" 
MY HAND OF MANY COLORS
He left to go check the x-rays, then returned and informed me I’d fractured my ulna and my radius.
“I’ll immobilize them for you with a splint that’s similar to a cast," he said. "But I have bad news.”
As if what he’d already told me had been the good news?
“There’s no one here to set the bones," he said. "You'll have to head over to the hospital’s emergency room and see the orthopedic surgeon on call.”
Two words immediately caused my heart to race…”hospital" and "surgeon."
“Sounds like it’s going to be a really long day," I muttered, thinking of my poor dogs crossing their legs back at home. “Guess I should grab something to eat before heading over there.”
“No, you’ll be better off keeping your stomach empty,” he said. “So you won’t end up vomiting.”
Easy for him to say, I thought, fighting the urge to glare at him. His last meal probably hadn’t been dinner the night before, like mine had been.
He didn’t elaborate about the vomiting, and I didn’t dare ask.
All I knew was it was official...my puffy wrist and I definitely were doomed.
I’ll tell you all about my crazy adventures at the hospital in next week's post. Typing this one with only one hand has taken me about seven hours and seven million typos. So I’m ready for my nap now.
# # #
Sally Breslin is
an award-winning syndicated columnist who has written regularly for newspapers
and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a
variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at:
sillysally@att.net
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