Two months ago I fractured my wrist. I waited 2 whole months to write about it because I feel that a sufficient amount of time has passed for it to be funny in hindsight as opposed to making me feel really weird about myself.
You might be wondering if I sustained this injury while heroically rescuing a baby and kitten from a burning building. The truth is only slightly less heroic. (Read: extremely less and also very pathetic)
Now my coordination and motor skills are nothing to write home about, unless you are in the habit writing home about crappy things. Add a slippery surface, some liquid and a rude stranger and the whole thing goes from being an occurrence to an ordeal.
The events leading up to that week becoming the actual WORST, were as nondescript as any, but add them all up and it becomes a week worthy of a full scale psychotic breakdown.
It all started with many up close and personal encounters on my daily commute to work. Nothing says day ruined quite like a stray fart, especially when said fart has come from someone whose butt is literally at eye level with your face. No one should have to endure the amount of disgusting things that have happened to me on trains.
The situation only further worsened with my arrival to work. Crying in front of 3 different levels of management is one thing, but doing it twice in one day is just sad. The stress from work had built to tense levels throughout the week and by Friday I was so tense I felt like an aspirin about to fizz over and split into oblivion. My fragile psyche could not handle much more.
The problem is that the universe doesn’t give a crap about my fragile psyche. That Friday I locked my only set of house keys in my house. To make matters worse, my entire family was in Europe, leaving me a key-less, family-less loser. I would have to call a locksmith and deal with the situation after work because I was not about to be late on top of everything else.
Finally the weekend had arrived. Blessed weekend, how I love the.
Or so I thought.
Because I naively thought being defiled on public transport, crying at work and locking myself out of my house meant that I had reached my quota of tragic encounters for the week. No, I needed to do something really messed up to put the cherry on top of a fantastic week.
Queue a drunken stranger with perhaps even lesser motor skills and coordination than my own (if that’s even possible.)
I was on my way home when some random guy (hereto forth referred to as The Perpetrator) decided that walking head on into me was the only way for him to get to where he needed to go.
I saw nothing until The Perpetrator rounded the corner in a blaze of fury and walked right into me. I was obviously not expecting anything like this so I wasn’t able to move out of the way or brace myself for the fall. The situation was only made worse by the fact that the ground was wet, sealing my fate, as I crashed down palm first onto the concrete. The Perpetrator vanished, not stopping to help me up or check to see if I had cracked my head open. Another kind stranger helped me up while I awkwardly smiled and pretended to be fine.
Next thing I know my friend has picked me up and is driving me to the emergency room. We spent nearly 4 hours getting carted between radiologists and doctors until a doctor literally wrenched and pushed my bone back into submission and left me with a behemoth of plaster on my arm.
The gravity of the situation did not hit me until I was home and struggling to pull a t-shirt over my head with my crippled arm. I burst into tears immediately.
Half-dressed, laying in bed.
In the dark.
(To be clear, I wasn’t in the dark due to not having any electricity or the ability to turn it on. It was simply more dramatic to lay there in the dark and pity myself.)
The one faint glimmer of happiness during this tragedy, a silver lining if you will, was that my Orthopedic surgeon was quite possibly the most attractive Doctor (and possibly human) to ever grace this earth. Seeing him for my weekly check up was happiness. Now that the cast is off I have actually thought more than once about how bad it would be if I broke another bone if it meant I would get to see him again. I’m not joking either, that thought sincerely inhabited my body several times. It definitely is not something I am proud of but in the interest of full disclosure, I really felt that you should know.