Arm Breaking Pt 3

Alright, we’ve reached the final part of this series . . . I hope.

The third time I fractured an arm was in the tenth grade. Now people say that badminton is one of the least dangerous high school sports out there, but even if that’s true, that doesn’t keep strange injuries from happening. So if you haven’t guessed already, this story begins during a badminton tournament. 

The start of the day went as expected—I one a couple games, but lost most of them. Around noon, I was in the middle of a heated match with a worthy opponent, and though she was winning, I was sure I could make a comeback. I should probably mention that I play singles. As we battled for every point, I kept a watchful eye out for any mistakes from my competitor. Then it happened. She flicked the shuttle high into the air. If I could only get under it, I might have a chance at dealing back a smash and winning the point.

Then it happened. One moment I was leaning deep backward to reach the bird, and the next I was flat on my back, the gymnasium having tilted sideways around me. At first I was only confused, then the pain hit. And the second after, I recognized it. It was in the exact same place as two years before. To the month in fact. I didn’t want to believe it, but I was certain it was another buckle fracture to the left radius. I got up, winded, holding my wrist, racket abandoned. They asked if I would continue; would play again in the next game. I turned them down. There would be no quick and easy coming back from this.

I sat off in the bleachers, with my coach. In silence we sat together, and I was given some ice in a ziplock bag. I distinctly remember how ice cubes looked like hollow jujubes. This time I didn’t bother pretending; I knew what was wrong, and there would be no sense in avoiding the inevitable.

I needed an x-ray, but more importantly, a cast, for I already knew what ailed me. Unfortunately, neither of my parents could pick me up, and the coach couldn’t leave until the end of the tournament. I also didn’t have enough money for a taxi. I could either wait four hours for the event to end, or take my chances on my own with public transit.

I chose the latter.

I changed out of my gym clothes, knowing full well that it would be a while yet before I’d put them on again, and caught the first bus toward home where I’d meet up with my parents. But the area was unfamiliar, and I missed my stop to switch buses. I had to wait for another to take me back. It was around then that I realized I was growing faint. Maybe I’d hit my head when I fell, or maybe it was my brain trying to block out the pain. It didn’t matter. What I did know was that I had to get home fast, or I’d slip into unconsciousness. When the bus arrived, I gladly boarded, because I was that much closer to my destination. Unfortunately, there were no more seats, and I had to stand. I found this difficult, because I needed a hand for my gym bag and I couldn’t hold on to any support bars due to my injured wrist. I think I kind of went with the flow there, surfing to the movements of the bus. At least it kept me awake. 

I took the first seat vacated, but then the next problem hit. My ice “pack” wasn’t ice anymore and leaking. Ziplocs aren’t made to hold liquids. I couldn’t very well dump the water on the bus, and I knew I’d look like an idiot if I stood next to the door and sloshed it out at the next stop. Instead, I sat tight, holding the bag by a corner far away from me.

At long last my stop came and I disembarked again. The first thing I did was dump that stupid water down the nearest gutter. I got a few strange looks. I still had to take one more bus, but I was on streets I recognized, and soon I was home.

My father was ready to take me to the hospital, but I was in no shape to take to the bus again and conked out on the sofa for an hour.

I woke up to an intense pain, and saw that my wrist had swollen to twice its size, stretching the skin taut. I took some Advil and grabbed a fresh ice pack, and we were off.

Now I think I’ve written enough about hospital waiting rooms, so I’m going to keep this short. Basically I split my time between studying for a big history test and shamefully watching kids’ shows. —On a tablet though, not one of the lame ones always playing on hospital TVs. I watched quality Cartoon Network illegally uploaded onto YouTube.

Again I got my appointment with the doctor. Again he asked me if I was pregnant. Again I answered no. Again he told me it was a buckle fracture. So I had been right. Diagnosis through experience, hooray! I was taken to another room for a nurse to wrap my wrist in the same fibreglass and gauze, and somehow I knew more about how it was done than he did.

Because of my injury, I wouldn’t be attending any more badminton practices for the next couple weeks, but luckily for me, my season wasn’t over. I had only missed a simple round robin and that wouldn’t impede me from entering the city tournament which, if I qualified, could take me to regionals. I recovered in time, but had to put my removable cast on again for practice—just to be on the safe side. I found it so sweaty though, that I stopped doing it by the next tournament against doctor’s order.

Funny story now, gross as it was, I had actually kept the first fibreglass shell from the other fracture. And it still fit. It was covered in thick cotton, so after a damp wipe down it wasn’t that bad at all. It was actually more comfortable than the new one, because it hadn been shaped by someone with more experience. I was able to alternate the fibreglass every day when it got sweaty.

I know I kind of said I wouldn’t use watermarked pictures anymore, but I couldn’t believe there were actually stock photos of people in arm casts at badminton courts. The only discrepancy is I fractured my left wrist, not my right. The image is from Shutterstock, if you can’t already tell.