I wouldn’t call myself accident prone, but I have had my fair share of injuries here or there. An occasional wipe-out on my bike when I first started learning, a curse-word inducing stubbed toe, and of course who could forget the Noodles and Company face-to-window incident? Me, and my nose, certainly won’t.

This is the story about the first injury/trip to the hospital I can remember. I was in first grade, still going to daycare. We used to go to a woman’s house in the country. It was usually me, her son, and a couple of other up-to-no-good trouble making boys. We were outside playing in the yard as usual. The boys were playing some stupid game where one would sit on another’s feet as he laid on the ground while he catapulted the other in the air.

I was minding my own business on the swing when one of the boys called to me. “Megan, you have to do it to.”

“No, I don’t want to,” my six-year old self snapped back. But to no avail. I had to do it, he said. I was a chicken and everyone was doing it.

I reluctantly walked over, sat on his feet, and with full-force, went flying through the air, landing on my left wrist. The pain was excruciating and I think I started crying immediately.

The babysitter rushed out of the house, but all I could really do was hold up my arm, sobbing what should have been words. “Oh honey I think it’s broken,” she said, as I held my should-be straight arm crookedly in her view. What a way to end playtime.

The next thing I knew, my dad came to pick me up. He tried his best to calm me down. I remember my arm hurt so bad that I couldn’t even wear the seatbelt, because anything that brushed against my arm caused me to yell in distress. It was some of the worst pain I remember feeling.

The next thing I new, we were in the emergency room. I don’t remember much after that, just that they put me to sleep, and when I woke up, there was a bright orange cast on my tiny wrist. The doctor had drawn a pumpkin on it. (It was right around Halloween). Mom and Dad were both there ready to take me home.

The six-week recovery was fine. It was a little difficult to find decent positions to fall asleep in. I greatly enjoyed having all my classmates sign my little orange cast. But my favorite part of the whole ordeal was spending a day with dad, taking me to Woodman’s and letting me roam around, trying all the samples (They always had so many). He then took me to the video store and let me rent 5 movies! (Mom only usually let me pick out 2, bless her heart).

As I sit typing this post today, my wrist has healed. My body has no memory of the intense pain I felt that day 17 years ago. But I will always remember the story of my first (and hopefully only) broken bone, and how lucky I am that Mom and Dad took such good care of me.