The Rest of the Story

This is Part 3 in a series called "Injury Prone." For Part 1 click here, for Part 2 click here.

I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that I had broken my right wrist the first week of my second semester of my freshman year in college. I'm right-handed. This was going to be a problem. How big of a problem it would end up being hinged on my upcoming appointment with the orthopaedic surgeon.

As I killed time before my appointment, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with anxiety. Luckily, I got a bit of a boost right before I went to the clinic.

I arrived at the clinic with a few minutes to spare. The doctor brought me into the exam room, and put my x-rays up on that wall-mounted backlit thingy.

"Wow! This is the worst break I've seen all year," he exclaimed.

"Hah! You're kidding, right?" I asked, sure he said that to every patient as a way to break the ice.

"No," he deadpanned.

*crickets*

He went on to tell me that I needed surgery because the bone was, basically, crushed at the joint. If I wanted it to heal properly and if I wanted to gain any movement back I would need a titanium plate put in to hold the pieces together so that they would heal properly.

*GULP*

Furthermore, I needed surgery, like, yesterday, because (apparently) the longer you wait after an injury the more swelling there is and the more swelling there is the more difficult the surgery.

*DOUBLE GULP*

It was here that I told him I was right-handed and played the violin. Please, sir, won't you help me be able to use my right hand/arm/wrist for the rest of my life even just a tiny bit?

I told him I was ready for surgery ASAP.

He didn't believe me.

I showed him my fingernails sans nail polish. I made him listen to my empty stomach growling wantonly for food. He had already been staring at my less-than-impressive makeup-less face for at least 45 minutes.

He agreed to schedule surgery for 4:00 PM that afternoon, which was now 5 hours away.

I requested my one phone call, and called my parents to let them know their daughter would be unconscious and her body would be cut open later that day.

Throughout this entire process I never remember feeling anxious. If anything, I was resigned to the fact that I needed surgery if I had any chance of future mobility with my hand, wrist, and forearm; and, having gone through it before, I felt calm and peaceful knowing that I would make it through again.

Later that day...

The beauty of living in the big city at a university campus with a medical research facility is that the hospital where I was to have surgery was located - literally - in my backyard. I said goodbye to my roommate and walked the 200 yards to the hospital to check in for surgery.

I proceeded to wait for 70 minutes.

My parents miraculously arrived 10 minutes later. They had taken off of work immediately after I called to tell them my confirmed health status, and they drove directly from Green Bay, WI to Minneapolis, MN in exactly 4 hours.

Don't tell the state highway patrol.

Their presence meant I wouldn't be alone when I came out of surgery - an immensely comforting thought. A short while after they arrived I was wheeled into surgery.

The Rest of the Story

You're now probably wondering how it went.

Surgery went well and I began physical therapy the next week. Because it was a joint they wanted me to begin exercises right away so that it wouldn't stiffen up or heal all wonky-like.

I had this cool zip-up plastic cast that they continually melted as the weeks went on and reformed on my arm as the swelling went down.

I religiously did my exercises and strength training.

I audio recorded all of my college lectures.

I painstakingly made my way across the frozen, icy campus every other day for my physical therapy appointments (never falling once, you'll be happy to know).

At the end of 3 months - to the surprise and pride of my doctors - I gained back 100% of my mobility, blowing away everyone's expectations.

That summer, just 2 months after my full recovery was declared, I worked as a Camp Couselor at Camp Luther, my childhood church camp in Northern WI. I'm pretty sure the pure physicality of that summer only helped to strengthen my healing (as well as the spirituality strengthened my spirit).

The next year at university I joined the worship team for City Celebration, a campus group that met monthly to praise and share Christ in greater-Minneapolis. I played my violin with this group for the next 3 years...not always well, but, hey...beggars can't be choosers.

You may recall that girl I told you about who prayed so earnestly for my recovery when I couldn't move beyond the worry.

You may remember me thinking how I knew her from somewhere, likely one of the many college social groups I visited or maybe from a class I was taking.

That girl? I never saw her again.

Make of that what you will, but now you know the rest of the story.

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I've Never Told This Story Before

This is Part 2 of Injury Prone: Learning How to Write Left-Handed

You may recall that after I broke my wrist, I immediately fell asleep for, give or take, two days.

I blame it on the pain meds.

I still had to see a specialist to determine if the break needed surgical repair, but the first available appointment was a week later. I attempted to look pitiful at every class the following week.

On Friday morning, the day of my appointment with the surgeon, I had a funny feeling. I've been down the surgical route before and knew the rules. My appointment was as 10:00 AM. Because I had an 8:00 AM class I woke up at 7:00. I didn't eat breakfast. I didn't put on makeup. I removed my nail polish.

Just in case, I thought. Just in case he says I need to have surgery.

After class I had about 30 minutes to wait until my doctor's appointment, so I settled myself outside the university bookstore to catch up on some reading for class.

As I sat in the hallway outside the store, I couldn't get my mind off my hunger. This, in turn, led me to think about the reason for my hunger (As a rule, you're generally not allowed to eat before surgery as your metabolism can interefere with the anesthesia).

I'm usually not a worrier or one induced to panic, but this morning I couldn't keep from thinking about the worst case scenario.

Maybe it was being away from home. Maybe it was being on my own in college in a big city. Maybe my lack of panic in the past was just banked for a moment like this.

Either way, I wasn't in the best shape, and I gave up any pretense of reading.

That's when I saw her approach. A lovely gal with long, straight brown hair whose face looked SO familiar.

But where did I know her from?

I mean, this is my first year of college; I've met, literally, hundreds of new people from dozens of new places. It's hard to keep track.

She approached with a hearty, "Mandi! How are you?!?!"

Not wanting to sound like I didn't remember her, I replied with a tepid, "Hello!" and then, with the worry on my mind, proceeded to word vomit all over her greeting, telling her about my broken wrist, the broom ball ordeal, the past lethargic week, and the imminent visit with the surgeon.

I was a bit taken aback when her first response was not, "Oh, I'm so sorry!" but instead, "Can I pray for you?"

I shrugged and said, "Sure."

She took my injured wrist between her hands and began to pray. I don't remember the words, but I remember the passion and the confidence with which she said them. I know she prayed for my heart, my healing, the wisdom of my doctors, and the burden of my worry.

At the time it felt kind of strange. I mean, this was a broken wrist. Usually people pray for victims of wildfires who have lost their entire livelihood, or people pray for children starving in Africa - big things, people usually pray for big things.

But this mystery woman was praying for my wrist. In the scheme of things, a broken wrist didn't seem like such a big deal.

Regardless, she finished her heartfelt prayer, and I still couldn't place her even though I recognized her.

Fishing for a clue as to where I knew her from, as she walked away I said, "See you later..." hoping she would fill in the blank.

She didn't.

Instead she replied with - and I'll never forget these words - "In heaven if not sooner."

Want to know the rest of the story? Stay tuned for Part 3 tomorrow!

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Injury Prone: Learning How to Write Left-Handed, Part One

I tell ya, the money I saved my parents by not needing braces or glasses as a child, I had 'em pay out in spades through ER visits, X-Rays, and the occasional surgery.

Sure, I've broken my arm, my knee, I've injured my shoulder, I've even got a couple of fingers in there for good measure (spoiler alert!)...but none of these injuries required me to become ambidextrous.

Until The Shattered Wrist of '01.

It was a cold, frozen evening my freshman year of college in Minneapolis. The beginning of the 2nd semester, classes hadn't even begun yet, but my friends and I were back in town and craving some fun social time.

A recent ice storm had left the campus covered in mortal danger (especially for an accident-prone person such as me), so, instead of trying to beat Ma Nature we joined her by planning a game of broom ball on the intramural ice rink.

Now, if you're unfamiliar with broom ball, it's the basic rules of hockey (read: insert ball into net on ice using long stick); however, instead of a puck you use a ball and instead of a hockey stick you use a broom. Did I mention players don't wear pads or skates? One just bundles up in the warmest clothes on hand and ungracefully glides across the ice on tennis shoes.

It was, maybe, 10:30 PM and my team had the ball. I was open along the boards, and right after I was given the ball I took my chance at a slap shot. Being the athletically-inclined person that I am, I immediately fell backward, bracing my fall with my arms extended behind me.

This was a mistake.

Instead of landing on my rear and, maybe, having to deal with a bruised tail bone and/or ego, I instead landed on my palms, taking the brunt of my weight on my wrists.

Having broken bones before, I instantly knew the hot, quickly swelling, throbbingly painful joint was broken.

Luckily we were close to the university's athletic center, so we carefully made our way off the ice to get help.

By this time I was crying the silent, persistent tears of one who knows she's in deep.

The hospital was a mere 1/2 mile away, and the receptionist at the athletic center asked if I wanted to walk or if I wanted an ambulance.

These were the good ol' days of me being covered by my father's insurance plan, and that, combined with the fact that all sidewalks were covered in glare ice, led me to choose option B, the ambulance. I figured the EMTs would be able to patch me up a bit before the ride, and at least this way I was sure to not break anything else. It was me; there was 45% chance of such a thing happening.

I got to the ER and, like in every other hospital in our great nation of profiteering HMOs, I filled out a mountain of paperwork and waited an hour and a half for a doctor, X-rays, etc.

Not to gross you out, but X-rays were pretty much unnecessary*. When I lifted up the sleeve of my sweatshirt, everyone could see my wrist bones (distal and radius for those playing at home) created a slight S-curve, where before they were straight. *Note: X-rays, however, were necessary for the surgeon later that week, more on this later).

Awesome.

The doctor put me in a temporary cast and gave me some pain pills to last me a few days. She then signed me up for the next available appointment with the orthopaedic surgeon - a full week later.

Faced with the daunting 2+ mile walk back to my dorm across ice-encrusted walkways, in severe pain and slight loopiness with medication kicking in, at 1:30 AM no less, I wondered what the heck I was going to do.

As fate would have it, I remembered a very important moment from my church group's meeting that took place the previous evening...

...The Previous Evening

My friend, Aaron, stood up in front of our Campus Crusade for Christ group and gave his testimony. This was a common way to start our meetings - share a testimony, run down items of business, worship, speaker, and prayer, etc. At the end of his testimony, Aaron said, "If you have any questions or just want to talk about what I've said or what you've heard here tonight about God, give me a call at 301-0103*...any time, any day." *not his actual phone number, but you get the idea

During the meeting I couldn't get his phone number out of my head, which was ridiculous because he lived one floor above me in the dorm. I was never going to need to call him; I could just walk up and see him. For some reason, though, I couldn't get "301-0103" out of my head; I kept repeating it and repeating it until it became a sing-song mantra of a sort.

Little did I know...

...Back at the Hospital.

My roommate, Amanda, was with me through the whole broom ball, broken wrist, ambulance chase (read: ride), ER visit fiasco. As we were getting ready to leave, we thought about how we were going to get back across campus to our dorm (NOTE: we went to the 2nd largest university in the country, hence, a "walk across campus" generally consists of miles, plural, and at least 25 minutes).

Me: To be honest, I really don't want to walk. Knowing me, I'll fall and break something...else.

Amanda: Do we know anyone with a car? (This large university is located in Minneapolis, which means the cost of parking is atrocious and not many college students bring their cars)

Me: What about John? (A friend who lived on our floor)

Amanda: Do you know his phone number?

Me: Hm, no. (He lived on our floor. We never called him, we just knocked on his door)

Amanda: *thinking*

Mandi: *thinking on narcotics*

Mandi: 301-0103, 301-0103, 301-0103...

Mandi: Hey! I know Aaron's phone number!

Amanda: Does he have a car?

Mandi: Why yes, yes he does!

In a truly blessed and foreseen-by-God moment we called Aaron - of the "any time, any day" friend variety - and he graciously drove over to the hospital in the middle of the frozen, icy night to pick us up and save us from a long, perilous journey home.

I'd say he saved Amanda more than me, because, now that the Tylenol+Codeine was kicking in, I surely would've been a handful for Amanda on the walk home.

We arrived safely home to our dorm, where I promptly fell asleep for the next 48 hours.

Like this story? There's more! Stay tuned for Part Two...
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Flu...'Nuff Said

In other news, I roused myself yesterday long enough for a call with a fellow fundraiser. Bringing out the big guns, so to speak. Thank you, JB, your advice was helpful and your encouragement much-needed.

"Don't get in your own way."

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Current Couch Potato | Aspiring Runner:

Completing my first half marathon to benefit the Crohn's & Colitis Foundation of America will be a community endeavor. Won't you help me change lives?

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Training Q: Shoes? Injury? Something else?

I like running; I really do. Just not when my legs hurt.

For the past two training sessions (5 miles on Sunday, 2 miles yesterday) I never got into a good rhythm because my calf muscles kept hurting.

Like a Charlie Horse on steroids. Like my muscles mysteriously shortened and I couldn't extend my leg as far as I used to. Like I felt every darn impact of my sole hitting the pavement to the Nth degree. That crap literally echoed in my head.

Yes, these types of things are largely psychological.

I would need to stop and stretch every half mile or so, which would bring delightful relief, only to have the problem act up again 5 steps into my next jog. Even walking hurt.

It wasn't until about a mile and half in that either the pain numbed my leg so much I didn't notice, or my legs finally just got used to it and I could put up some semblence of an attempt at jogging.

What gives?

Is it my shoes? Do I need to stretch even more after each run? Will ibuprofen help? Icing? Spelling the alphabet with my toes in the air? Not wearing high heels during the day? Nutrition?

To be honest, I haven't been training as much or as long as I should so I have a hard time believing it's overuse/exhaustion...

It's a conundrum.

UPDATE:
Calf Soreness = Running Form
DOMS

Thank you, Google.
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Current Couch Potato | Aspiring Runner:

Completing my first half marathon to benefit the Crohn's & Colitis Foundation of America will be a community endeavor. Won't you help me change lives?

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Injury Prone: Breaking My Arm. Twice. In the Exact Same Spot.

Which do you think are greater - The odds of getting struck by lightning? Or the odds of breaking your arm in the exact same spot, twice, in 11 months?

Sure, anyone can break their arm, but I've always been an overachiever.

Injury: Broken Humerus, which I certainly didn't find all that humourous (oh, c'mon, like you didn't see that one coming)

Sport: Sledding & Kickball
I would say "Competitive Sledding" if that made it seem more awe-inspiring, and I should also tell you it was kickball on ice.

Effectively impressed?

The sledding thing happened in my Mom's hometown. I went down the hill on one of those inflated rubber donut-y sleds.

I didn't see the jump some A-hole kid had built in the middle of the sled hill.

Seriously, parents, you're not doing your job very well if you let your kids build public safety violations in the middle of a public play area.

I'm not bitter.

As I was airborn, I tried, unsuccessfully, to hold on. I landed on my side, effectively breaking my upper arm in half.

Sorry, if that sounded graphic; it wasn't in real life.

My Mom was standing quite a distance away at the bottom of the hill, and in my pain-induced young child's mind I thought, "I need to let her know something is wrong."

So I started screaming at the top of my lungs.

I didn't stop until we arrived at my Grandma's house (luckily she lived nearby), and not even then, really. I think, once you get into the spirit of it, it's hard to stop. As a kid, you do realize the immediate danger is over, but now you've worked yourself into such a tither that it's the tither fueling your episode.

Luckily, I didn't have to wear an immobilizing plaster cast, but I did have a velcro brace that went 'round my chest and strapped my arm down. This always led to the somewhat-awkward morning question, "Arm under clothes or arm over clothes?"

Strapping my arm down underneath my clothes meant less jostle in the morning. Pain seems much more acute when you're not yet fully awake.

Strapping my arm over my clothes, however, meant I wouldn't look like a one-armed lumpy blob.

Usually I switched it up to keep things fresh and my classmates confused.

It was exactly 11 months later that I was playing kickball on the icy playground during recess.

Why was I playing kickball on the icy playground during recess, you ask?

Go ahead. I'll wait.

Well, I'm glad you asked, and allow me to answer your question with a question.

Why does any young child do anything that's clearly not in their best interest?

Because children are inherently stupid.

And my stupidity bought me another couple of months in the velcro brace/sling combo having to ask that awkward morning question.

Likeliness of Happening While Running: 65% if it's winter and there's ice on the ground, apparently.

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Current Couch Potato | Aspiring Runner:

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Injury Prone: The Time I Got a Hockey Injury Not Playing Hockey

Injury: My Shoulder's Really Frakin' Sore-itis
Sorry, I don't remember the medical term. If you know, enlighten me.

Basically, it was a similar injury that a lot of hockey players get when they are body-checked into the boards. The shoulder joint is impacted and smashed inward.

Nothing's broken or torn, but the possibility for sprain/strain still exists.

Symptoms include waterworks-inducing pain whenever the arm is lifted to the side, out front, or, really, any movement of the joint at all. Let's not even talk about weight-bearing.

Treatment includes solid dose of Ibuprofen, regular rounds of icing, Kleenex for the tears, and immobility with the aid of a sling. Ambidextrous-ness helps as the arm is good for nothing during this recovery period.

Sport: You'd think Hockey, but no. It was downhill skiing.
I don't downhill ski. I feel this is one of those skills you need to learn as a child, because once you turn into an adult the idea of zooming down a mountain at any miles per hour with poor ability to stop just doesn't seem all that attractive.

But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

My friend's family has a cabin near Duluth, MN, and we spent our New Year's break during college hanging out, drinking some brewskis, and trying on some actual skis.

At Spirit Mountain.

Which later I was told is one of the hardest mountains in the area and the professional skiers and snowboarders of Minnesota sometimes practice there.

Awesome.

I spent the morning on the Bunny Hill. The day progressed nicely with my friend's sister experimenting on a snowboard, going down the bunny hill, biffing, and breaking her arm and getting a concussion.

Again, awesome.

Not to be deterred I manned up when it looked like we were about to head home, and I decided to try my first Green run of the day.

Mistake.

Almost immediately I fell, landing on my side (aka: smashed shoulder), and banging my head on the iced-over snow.

That's the thing about ski hills on sunny days.

It seems great, but the surface area turns from delightfully powdery to death-defyingly ice-crusted pretty quickly.

Needless to say, I walked down the rest of the hill with my friend so we could catch the chair lift back up to the chalet. On the way down Ski Patrol stopped by and asked us if we were alright.

My friend replied, "Yep, she fell so we're just taking it easy."
The Patrol Guy replied, "Hey, weren't you the one who's sister broke her arm and suffered a concussion?"

That's 3 Awesome's now for those of you playing at home.

The Prognosis:
The immediate injury was the concussion, which I didn't get checked out and I ignored the rest of the night. It was New Year's Eve and it wasn't my best Life Decision.

Always get your concussions checked out, kids.

I went into the doctor a week later when my shoulder started hurting.

You must know that I went to college at the University of Minnesota, meaning the doctors at this school are old hats at treating the D1 athletes, and especially the super star hockey players.

This led to my first doctor claiming I had no injury and that, basically, I should just suck it up. I'm pretty sure he even checked "Girl" on my chart instead of "Female" in the Sex category.

Three weeks later I was in so much pain I couldn't even shift the gears while driving. I saw a different doctor who took one look at me and my history, and then the following conversation ensued:

Doc: So you've had this injury for about 4 weeks now?
Me: Yep
Doc: And the other guy didn't give you pain meds?
Me: Nope
Doc: And he didn't give you an icing schedule?
Me: Nope
Doc: And he didn't give you a sling to immobilize it?
Me: Yes....ha, just kidding. Nope.

It's not what was said, but what was insinuated that's of interest in this dialogue.

And that's, basically, the end of my story. With New Doc's rehab tips I got better, yet still continued to have random problems throughout the next couple of years whenever I overworked that shoulder. Whatevs.

Likelihood of Happening While Running: 7%, there is that rogue, Wauwatosan Body Checking Bandit running around...

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Current Couch Potato | Aspiring Runner:

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Injury Prone: A New Blog Series

"I am sooooooooo athletic," she says with Valley Girl sarcasm.

And by "she" I mean "me."

Yes, that's right. I'm the picture of athletic-ness. Training for my first half marathon, captain of my high school swim team, full-back on my high school soccer team, knows what HIIT stands for and regularly practices it.

High Intensity Interval Training, see?

But I'm not really athletic. I just sometimes look like it (on paper).

Because, you see, the problem is that I'm actually quite injury prone. In the "broken bone and/or surgery" kind of way.

So much so that I've decided to launch a new blog series telling you just how athletic - or not - that I really am in an effort to stave off any future surprise and concern when I encounter my first injury during half marathon training.

Which could take place tomorrow, next month, or, heck, even after this lovely race and 6 months from now when I am in the midst of training for my second half marathon.

You never know.

But you've been warned; don't be surprised when something happens like this:

Injury: Nearly Dislocated Jaw
You know how in Harry Potter there's that ghost named Nearly-Headless Nick? Same thing, only it was a nearly dislocated jaw, I didn't die from it, and, therefore, I'm not a ghost.

Sport: Soccer
It was an away game in Antigo, WI. So many of our team members had a choir concert that evening that we only had 1 substitute and she was the extra goalie. Our Sweeper went to clear the ball from in front of our goal and my head got in the way.

It was the "crack" heard round the world.

Okay, like, maybe 5 feet, but you know what I mean.

I dropped to the ground so the ref would call a time out and the stars would stop sparkling around my face. Our extra goalie subbed in and we finished the last 2 minutes of the game. We stopped at Hardee's on the way home and I got a milkshake, though sucking on the straw was rather difficult since I couldn't close my mouth...my jaw was swollen slightly open so I had a permanent scared/shocked-looking face.

I thought about stopping at the theater on the way home to see a horror flick...I figured it'd probably be the only time I would actually look scared during a late 90's horror film.

Instead my dad met the bus at our high school, and we went straight to the ER. The doctor said my jaw was only nearly-dislocated...a full dislocation of the jaw would be, oh, so easy to spot (I won't give you an image of that).

I spent the next 3-5 days dribbling milkshakes, jello, pudding, and any other non-chewable food in my constantly-"ajar" mouth until the swelling went down.

Likelihood of Happening While Running: 0%, thankfully.



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Current Couch Potato | Aspiring Runner:

Completing my first half marathon to benefit the Crohn's & Colitis Foundation of America will be a community endeavor. Won't you help me change lives?


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