Breaking bones at 60…

First, broken bones aren’t good things.

Second, broken bones at 60 are less than that.

Third, shouldn’t broken bones have stories of wild, romanticized “trophy” adventures attached to them?

Like shattering bones on a sky dive jump landing?  CAN say I jumped from 10,000 feet on my 57th birthday, wild with excitement… but no broken bones.  Just exhilaration.

Like shattering bones on an “Elevator Lift” fall from the top of a pole, as in pole dancing?  CAN say I took 8 weeks of Pole Dancing lessons, again at 57, but was unscathed but for dozens (and dozens) of bruises and broken pride.

Like shattering bones on a winter surfing lesson in Narragansett, RI… in February… again, at 57?  Maybe smashing into a hidden rock or two or being tossed from my surfboard in a wild wave?  CAN say I winter surfed with the legendary Peter Pan, but survived with a pretty good ride, albeit with mouth, nose and belly-fulls of salt water.

Like shattering bones while clipped into racing bike pedals the first time while training for a Half Ironman?  No, but CAN say just I’ve felt the humiliation of falling, clipped in, SMASHing to the ground at Goddard Park and rescued and unclipped by a good samaritan with 2 toddlers.

Or how ’bout while Pogo-sticking or Rock Climbing or Ice Skating at Rockefeller Center or Zip-lining?  Nope.  Nope. Nope and Nope.  No broken bone stories to tell.  Just the story of a 57-year old and a Bucket List of 57 Things.

I wish I could claim the adventure thing about my wrist bone-crack, fissure-sort-of-thing, as tiny as it appears to be; but I can’t.  I did this thing while playing tennis, on solid ground, with my husband Barry.

Actually, it wasn’t even while playing tennis.  We were just volleying the ball; trying to keep it in-bounds.  We hadn’t played tennis in years.  Years.  Barry had taught me to play tennis before we were even engaged.  He’s a tough hitter, a long ball kind of guy (hmmm. i like this.)  Anyway, I learned to move quickly, stay back, rush the net fast, get back… because Barry was not gonna let me play like a girl and *he was not gonna let me win. I loved him for this and I not only learned to play tennis, but I married him, too.  Game/Set/Match/LOVE!  (*I played tennis with Barry for years, and won only 1 game.)

But anyway.  This past Monday, while on a mini-vacation in Florida, we decided to trek to the old tennis courts and hit around. We started a little slowly, but soon Barry was hitting the ball really well.  It all came back to me, and I was hitting cross-court, back handed and all that good stuff.  Then came the lobs; I hit them too hard, too soft (like Goldilocks) and then found my “just right” as a ball came sailing my way.  I kept my eye on the ball, remembered the perfect lob form, hit the ball… and then hit the ground.

THUD.  I fell backwards, smashing to the ground.  I felt a sharp pain in my left hip and butt cheek and thought, well… I can’t tell you what I was thinking because it involves curse words you’ve probably never heard or even imagined.  I tried to get up, but my left arm wasn’t co-operating.  It was both limp and SO painful that I felt instantly nauseous.

I looked to Barry for help.  But he was going after my awesome lob and his back was to me.

My son-in-law Brian was there, too, ready to hit around with Barry… and I looked to him for help.  But Brian was watching Barry go after my awesome lob.

I don’t know if I was screaming, but Brian says I was.  I don’t remember.  I just remember the pain.  Barry and Brian rushed to help me up, and I could feel my hip quite well, but my left hand, wrist and arm were untouchable.  I must have instinctively reached back to stop my fall; jamming up the whole works.

Fortunately, Brian had arrived earlier with a thermal cooler filled with ice, water bottles and a couple of beers.  Barry pulled out the ice, Brian pulled out the beer cans and I iced away.  (Oh, I drank a can, too.)…

I refused to go an ER or Urgent Care Center because I didn’t want to spend the day there… having been-there-done-that after a skiing accident 6 years ago when I fractured my RIGHT wrist.  (Oh, now THAT was a romanticized “trophy” kind of adventure with Ski Patrol  guys, the ride down the mountain in the rescue bucket and all that; a story for another post!)  I basically was given X-rays in the ER, wrapped in a splint and told to see an orthopedic guy when I got home.  I knew the drill.

So I sat in some nice Florida shade on the tennis court sideline with some nice ice, water bottles and beer cans on my hand, wrist and arm while Barry and Brian hit around for awhile…

Then we picked up some Tylenol, Advil and a little CVS wrist brace and that was that.

Barry and I flew home late last night and I had an ortho appointment today (thanks to my daughter-in-law Nicole and good friends).  X-rays, conservative approach to brace it and keep icing before jumping to a cast… determining factor at next Monday’s X-rays and appointment…

So while NOT being a great adventure, cracked-bone story… I did feel pretty good about my lob.  Barry and Brian both said that they were so impressed with it that all of their attention was ON IT, not me.  And I won that volley point.

Ha!  I guess there is a bit of an upside to this mishap, after all.  But if this 60-year old ever again breaks anything, it’d better be from something more wildly adventurous than a 2-foot ass landing!