I wanna talk about me, part duh
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Olivia Newton John in Xanadu. Ever seen it? For me, that was a defining film of my childhood. Once I saw Miss Olivia bee-bopping around on her skates while singing with her provocative off-the-shoulder dress, I knew I just had to be her.
So, I started skating.
Unfortunately, I'm not the most graceful sort. I have been known to go from standing to falling flat on my face without taking a step. I'm a natural at the ungracefulness, really.
me, all dolled up and ready for yet another surgery, 1988. Nice sun-in hair coloring job, eh?
So, I started skating.
Unfortunately, I'm not the most graceful sort. I have been known to go from standing to falling flat on my face without taking a step. I'm a natural at the ungracefulness, really.
And so, when I was 10 years old, I fell while practicing my skating moves in front of my parent's house. I knew immediately from the unnatural way my arm was hanging that some serious damage had been done.
Once I convinced my brother Matt and his friend that I wasn't "faking it," [their words] my mother was brought to the scene, and I was rushed to the local emergency room. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning, in spite of my protests and pleadings. Screws and a metal plate were put on the broken bone.
I cried. I hurt. I healed. (Do you like how fast I'm skipping over lots of parts? Don't answer that.)
Anyhoo, Quack number one told my parents they never take the metal plates out of kids' arms.
If only we had known.
Fast forward to me, age 13, ice skating with my best friend Christina's church youth group. My fine skating skills landed me face down on the ice with yet another disturbingly unnatural hang to my arm.
Yes, the same arm.
This time, both bones were broken. Another visit to whatever-doctor-shows-up-at-the-ER, and surgery was scheduled immediately. Unfortunately, as the first doctor had left the previous hardware in, my bone had grown completely around the plate. This doctor had to chip away at the bone in order to remove the plate, before attaching new ones to both broken bones.
Quack number two decided it would be wise to chip out eight inches of bone and insert a four inch plate, causing my arm to actually grow crooked.
I'm not kidding. It was bowed. Like this: (only no arrow sticking out of the flesh. That would have been a little creepy).
It was really gross.
Quack number three was called in a few months later to repair the damage done by quacks one and two. Over the next two years, I had four more surgeries, a bone graft, and months and months of physical therapy. It was traumatic, painful, and should never have happened.
Now, I have three four-inch long scars around my arm, and a one-inch scar on my wrist.
Moral of the story: Get a second opinion. Doctors aren't always what they're 'quacked' up to be.
And, yes, I have accepted that I will never, ever be a skating/singing muse. After all, there really only was one. And she was brilliant.
Once I convinced my brother Matt and his friend that I wasn't "faking it," [their words] my mother was brought to the scene, and I was rushed to the local emergency room. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning, in spite of my protests and pleadings. Screws and a metal plate were put on the broken bone.
I cried. I hurt. I healed. (Do you like how fast I'm skipping over lots of parts? Don't answer that.)
Anyhoo, Quack number one told my parents they never take the metal plates out of kids' arms.
If only we had known.
Fast forward to me, age 13, ice skating with my best friend Christina's church youth group. My fine skating skills landed me face down on the ice with yet another disturbingly unnatural hang to my arm.
Yes, the same arm.
This time, both bones were broken. Another visit to whatever-doctor-shows-up-at-the-ER, and surgery was scheduled immediately. Unfortunately, as the first doctor had left the previous hardware in, my bone had grown completely around the plate. This doctor had to chip away at the bone in order to remove the plate, before attaching new ones to both broken bones.
Quack number two decided it would be wise to chip out eight inches of bone and insert a four inch plate, causing my arm to actually grow crooked.
I'm not kidding. It was bowed. Like this: (only no arrow sticking out of the flesh. That would have been a little creepy).
It was really gross.
Quack number three was called in a few months later to repair the damage done by quacks one and two. Over the next two years, I had four more surgeries, a bone graft, and months and months of physical therapy. It was traumatic, painful, and should never have happened.
Now, I have three four-inch long scars around my arm, and a one-inch scar on my wrist.
Moral of the story: Get a second opinion. Doctors aren't always what they're 'quacked' up to be.
And, yes, I have accepted that I will never, ever be a skating/singing muse. After all, there really only was one. And she was brilliant.
