On that beautiful morning, we decided to go to Sunnybrook Park. My friends and I frolicked around, running in the grass and climbed a tree. I climbed higher and higher, gaining more confidence. Suddenly, my foot slipped and I came crashing down. A small but sturdy twig caught me, flipping me over. I landed with my arms outstretched and the wind knock out of my lungs.
Everyone asked in unison, “Are you okay?” Out of breath and slightly embarrassed, I told them in a light tone that I was fine. I got up to brush the dirt off my pants, wondering how I would explain the dirt stain on my pants. When I looked down, it felt like I fell off the tree again. My wrist was crooked. My face instantly paled and I could only say 3 words: Oh. My. God. I was unable to take my eyes off my alien wrist. This was obviously a nightmare; it wasn't real.
5 minutes after we called 911, we heard the high pitch siren of the ambulance. The paramedics gently put my arm in a makeshift cast letting some of the younger children hold the equipment. He guided me to the ambulance where 2 other paramedics waited. We were seated in the ambulance but I kept fidgeting and my mom’s face was ghostly pale. The paramedic, upon seeing us instantly said it was nothing.
“I broke my arm 3 times. Heck, I even broke my skull! I’m still here,” he joked.
After filling many forms and applications, we sat in the waiting room of the hospital. At first, we kept little conversation, but after 5 minutes, we were silent. My arm began to throb, which didn't happen before. At first, it only lasted for a second or so and then stopped. But it soon came back, lasting longer and longer. I began to gasp as the throbbing became a stab and I cried in my mom’s shoulder, biting my tongue to try to keep my mind off my arm. Again and again I told my mom that my arm hurt and she would bite her lips each time, wanting to do something. After the millionth time, my mom asked a nurse for painkillers.
To keep my mind off my arm, I forced myself to think about something else. Suddenly, my foggy mind cleared and I sat up straight. I would miss the Backstreet Boys concert. Before summer vacation, my family and I heard that the Backstreet Boys would be touring in Toronto. We scoured the Internet for tickets and when we finally found a site, we managed to snag the last few tickets. Everyday, we ticked off the boxes of our calendars, impatiently waiting for the day to arrive. Timidly, I asked my mom if I could still go.
“We'll see”, she replied and I knew it was impossible now.
Slumping quietly in my chair, I suddenly realized that I wouldn't be going to China either. To save money, my mom bought our tickets earlier this year and they were non-refundable. She already packed our bags a few weeks earlier and I was looking forward to a trip to the Terra Cotta warriors which I missed on my last visit.
Sensing my dark mood, we decided to try to go to Backstreet Boys concert. There were obviously going to be big crowds at the concert so we devised a system where my family members would stand around me to prevent anyone from accidentally bumping my arm. I would wear only one sling so everyone would get the message that my arm was broken without me losing my balance.
As if fate didn't want me to go, the forecast was rain. My cast could not touch water so we had to find a rain jacket. There couldn't be any sleeves as my arm could not fit and it had to be well insulated.
The day was quickly upon us so we scrambled into stores, scouring shelves and exploring aisles for the perfect raincoat. The days disappeared, one by one yet no stores had the perfect jacket. As the days went by, I became more frantic. It seemed that I wouldn't go after all.
The day before the concert, I was scrunched up on the couch, all hope gone and tears prickled my eyes. The Backstreet Boys concert was going to be my first live concert! Now because of my arm, my family and I couldn't go.
I heard the door closing, knowing what my dad would say. He walked up to me, holding something behind his back. He smiled and produced a pink bicycle raincoat. I slipped it over my head; it covered me from neck to toe and my arm was safely under the thick waterproof fabric. There were no sleeves. It seemed as if God sent it himself. I clutched the jacket, almost kissing it.
After the exciting, awesome concert, another wall slammed in front of us. How would I go to China? I only had my cast on for one week and we all knew from the Internet that I needed at least 2 weeks before the doctors gave me a fiberglass cast and I might be able to travel. My luck couldn't be repeated the second time so I sulked in the corner. Still, my parents were able to read me like an open book and knew what I was feeling. My dad proposed that he and I would go 2 weeks after my sister and mother if possible. If my arm still couldn't take it after 3 weeks, he and I would go on winter vacation. Still, my dad was away for most of the day and since my other arm was also hurt, without my sister or mother, how was I going to eat, bathe, dress or use the washroom? To make matters worse, we were renovating our staircase and there was no way that I was able to use it without assistance.
A week after the incident, when we went to the hospital for a checkup, I was taken by surprise when the nurse began to cut my cast before I saw the doctor. The nurse pawned our comments of how I only had my plaster cast for 1 week, saying that it was fine. Afraid to hope, I timidly asked the doctor if I could go to China. I held my breath waiting for his response. He stopped writing. Was he biting his lips and shaking his head? He seemed to be on the verge of giving me bad news and my heart sank. He looked up from his sheet, his eyes seemed furrowed and I could already hear his answer: I’m sorry, but no. Then he smiled.
“Of course you can,” he said and I did a silent whoop, “I’ll just put you in a fiberglass cast and you’ll be ready to go.”
Snip, snip. After we came back from China, a month later, the cast finally came off. I took one last look at my cast, its familiar color and texture, filled with names and get well notes with happy faces and hearts from all my friends. I tentatively touched my right arm which tingled with the foreign touch. My arm prevented me from writing to playing with a dog; it was something that is least on my mind at night when I crawl under the covers yet I depend on it the most.
Everyone asked in unison, “Are you okay?” Out of breath and slightly embarrassed, I told them in a light tone that I was fine. I got up to brush the dirt off my pants, wondering how I would explain the dirt stain on my pants. When I looked down, it felt like I fell off the tree again. My wrist was crooked. My face instantly paled and I could only say 3 words: Oh. My. God. I was unable to take my eyes off my alien wrist. This was obviously a nightmare; it wasn't real.
5 minutes after we called 911, we heard the high pitch siren of the ambulance. The paramedics gently put my arm in a makeshift cast letting some of the younger children hold the equipment. He guided me to the ambulance where 2 other paramedics waited. We were seated in the ambulance but I kept fidgeting and my mom’s face was ghostly pale. The paramedic, upon seeing us instantly said it was nothing.
“I broke my arm 3 times. Heck, I even broke my skull! I’m still here,” he joked.
After filling many forms and applications, we sat in the waiting room of the hospital. At first, we kept little conversation, but after 5 minutes, we were silent. My arm began to throb, which didn't happen before. At first, it only lasted for a second or so and then stopped. But it soon came back, lasting longer and longer. I began to gasp as the throbbing became a stab and I cried in my mom’s shoulder, biting my tongue to try to keep my mind off my arm. Again and again I told my mom that my arm hurt and she would bite her lips each time, wanting to do something. After the millionth time, my mom asked a nurse for painkillers.
To keep my mind off my arm, I forced myself to think about something else. Suddenly, my foggy mind cleared and I sat up straight. I would miss the Backstreet Boys concert. Before summer vacation, my family and I heard that the Backstreet Boys would be touring in Toronto. We scoured the Internet for tickets and when we finally found a site, we managed to snag the last few tickets. Everyday, we ticked off the boxes of our calendars, impatiently waiting for the day to arrive. Timidly, I asked my mom if I could still go.
“We'll see”, she replied and I knew it was impossible now.
Slumping quietly in my chair, I suddenly realized that I wouldn't be going to China either. To save money, my mom bought our tickets earlier this year and they were non-refundable. She already packed our bags a few weeks earlier and I was looking forward to a trip to the Terra Cotta warriors which I missed on my last visit.
Sensing my dark mood, we decided to try to go to Backstreet Boys concert. There were obviously going to be big crowds at the concert so we devised a system where my family members would stand around me to prevent anyone from accidentally bumping my arm. I would wear only one sling so everyone would get the message that my arm was broken without me losing my balance.
As if fate didn't want me to go, the forecast was rain. My cast could not touch water so we had to find a rain jacket. There couldn't be any sleeves as my arm could not fit and it had to be well insulated.
The day was quickly upon us so we scrambled into stores, scouring shelves and exploring aisles for the perfect raincoat. The days disappeared, one by one yet no stores had the perfect jacket. As the days went by, I became more frantic. It seemed that I wouldn't go after all.
The day before the concert, I was scrunched up on the couch, all hope gone and tears prickled my eyes. The Backstreet Boys concert was going to be my first live concert! Now because of my arm, my family and I couldn't go.
I heard the door closing, knowing what my dad would say. He walked up to me, holding something behind his back. He smiled and produced a pink bicycle raincoat. I slipped it over my head; it covered me from neck to toe and my arm was safely under the thick waterproof fabric. There were no sleeves. It seemed as if God sent it himself. I clutched the jacket, almost kissing it.
After the exciting, awesome concert, another wall slammed in front of us. How would I go to China? I only had my cast on for one week and we all knew from the Internet that I needed at least 2 weeks before the doctors gave me a fiberglass cast and I might be able to travel. My luck couldn't be repeated the second time so I sulked in the corner. Still, my parents were able to read me like an open book and knew what I was feeling. My dad proposed that he and I would go 2 weeks after my sister and mother if possible. If my arm still couldn't take it after 3 weeks, he and I would go on winter vacation. Still, my dad was away for most of the day and since my other arm was also hurt, without my sister or mother, how was I going to eat, bathe, dress or use the washroom? To make matters worse, we were renovating our staircase and there was no way that I was able to use it without assistance.
A week after the incident, when we went to the hospital for a checkup, I was taken by surprise when the nurse began to cut my cast before I saw the doctor. The nurse pawned our comments of how I only had my plaster cast for 1 week, saying that it was fine. Afraid to hope, I timidly asked the doctor if I could go to China. I held my breath waiting for his response. He stopped writing. Was he biting his lips and shaking his head? He seemed to be on the verge of giving me bad news and my heart sank. He looked up from his sheet, his eyes seemed furrowed and I could already hear his answer: I’m sorry, but no. Then he smiled.
“Of course you can,” he said and I did a silent whoop, “I’ll just put you in a fiberglass cast and you’ll be ready to go.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snip, snip. After we came back from China, a month later, the cast finally came off. I took one last look at my cast, its familiar color and texture, filled with names and get well notes with happy faces and hearts from all my friends. I tentatively touched my right arm which tingled with the foreign touch. My arm prevented me from writing to playing with a dog; it was something that is least on my mind at night when I crawl under the covers yet I depend on it the most.
