Fractured Arms-Personal Narrative

If there is one thing I have learned over the course of my life, it is that like fine china, I am very easily broken. Fractured arms inadvertently became a large part of my childhood, and I have spent more months in casts then I normally care to admit. Despite that I still managed to overcome my injuries and learn some valuable lessons in the process. An incredibly energetic four year old, nothing had me more excited than the prospect of traveling to Wichita the next day (especially because we were going to Chuck E. Cheese’s.) Due to that I was quite literally bouncing off of everything. Already you can see how injury came to pass. It was getting relatively late into the evening and my parents had basically given up in calming me down. That's

I didn't even suffer an injury! Yet, for some reason I was not satisfied because I did not really land my gold medal winning trick. So of course, like any rational four year old, I decided to try it again. Since I had used up all my luck on my first attempt, this one was met with an interesting cracking sound as my arms came down to the ground. A sound that was most definitely audible to my tired parents. My older sister Laysha was yanked from her room and we headed from our home in the middle of nowhere (south of Dresden) into Oberlin. It is a ride I do not particularly remember. There they attempted to set my snapped wrist multiple times, to no avail. From there we journeyed to McCook where they put me out and set the broken bone in the operating room. I remember waking up in an unfamiliar bed, my family strewn out into chairs in awkward positions around me from sleeping that night. When I was cleared I was taken out to the car in a wheelchair (I remember this because apparently it was fun) and then we headed to Wichita mostly as planned. There was only one thing different, my arm was in a cast, and I was NOT happy. I recall three things from that trip. One of them being playing with a

For me this is true, but one of the memories happens to be braking my arm. Again. It was a Wednesday afternoon (I have no idea why I remember that it was Wednesday, but it was) and my lovely group of friends was crowded around a particular piece of equipment, the yellow sliders. We were playing a game that took both being daring and the desire to show off. Seven year old me definitely possessed both of these things. The challenge was to jump out and grab onto a yellow slider that had been abandon too far away from the stepping place to reach out and grab. Those brave enough to try stood up and displayed what bravery they could muster. I quite vividly remember standing up on the wooden stepping place, listening to the chants of my young male acquaintances egging me on. It sounded a lot like “JUMP JUMP JUMP JUMP.” Not one to back down from a challenge, I did the rational thing. I jumped. After hitting the ground, I was perfectly calm. My friends on the other hand freaked out. I remember a couple of them walking me to Mrs. Ruff for inspection. She knew instantly that it was broken. The nurse in the other hand assured me it was just hyperextended, and that is what I fervently told my parents as well. Thursday came and passed and my parents remained suspicious of the severity of my injury. On Friday I recall playing dodgeball in PE, I was convincing my self to the best if my ability that I was fine. The