It was a scorching hot summer day in June with my cousins on the farm. As always, we were at my grandparents’ house and we were looking for something to occupy our time. Rollerblading seemed like an entertaining idea, so we started to get our gear on. Michael and Scott were with me and Brian was inside with my grandparents.
To set the scene, there are three doors to my grandparents’ house. The porch door is the one we use, the middle door is for guests, and the door on the right is the garage door. There is sidewalk from the porch door all the way to the garage. In front of the garage is a large cement pad that we race on towards the garage. The garage door has several large windows, at the perfect height for eleven year olds to use as a stopping point. Those annoying brakes never work anyway. Remember the ones that eleven year olds never really learn how to use? (Okay, maybe that’s just me) Before going outside, I didn’t have any socks, and I didn’t want to walk the 100 feet to my house to find my own. I had my knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards ready to go. I decided to wear only the knee pads, as I didn’t really like wearing the other two and I really didn’t need them anyway.
A race, three preteens, and a copious amount of energy: recipe for disaster? As we had so many other times before, we made our way out to the sidewalk. Michael and I prepared for the big race. The younger cousin, Scott, was to determine the winner. As Scott stood on the sidelines, Michael and I took our racing positions. The big tree at the end of the cement pad was the starting point. Scott was standing in the grass next to the garage door. We started the race and I felt confident. I am clearly winning, when Michael wimped out and turned into the grass. I won! I passed the pillar, so I was clearly the winner. Of course, I hadn’t braked, because those didn’t work efficiently. Five feet rested between me and the garage door. I reached out to stop myself like I had one hundred times before. As I slammed into the garage door, something unexpected happened. The window broke and the glass shattered everywhere. In the moment, I had no idea what had just happened. My wrist, with no wrist guard protection, went through the window. A natural human reaction occurred and I pulled my wrist away from the shattering glass. As I pulled my wrist out of what used to be the window, I flipped it over to examine it. I promptly turned it back over and started rollerblading to the middle door. At this point, all chaos had broken loose. Scott was motionless by the porch door, aside from the scream that sounded much like a 13 year old girl’s. Michael had already taken flight, rollerblades and all, behind the house. I got the impression he wasn’t fond of blood. As the responsible one, I rang the doorbell about 12 times. As my grandfather answered the door, he began to yell, “What is all the noise out here?!?!!” He looked down at me and then told me to go to the other door. He met me at the other door. As I started to walk in, he said, “Stop! You’ll get blood on the carpet.” As I stood in dismay and confusion, in my eleven year old mind I said to myself, “Really grandpa? I could pass out or die or fall over, and all you’re worried about is your stinkin’ carpet?” So, I continued to stand on my rollerblades and took one more glance at my wrist. I really didn’t like what I saw, so I decided to stop looking at it.
Within a few minutes, my grandma, grandpa, and I were crammed into the ancient white pickup we liked to call “Whitey.” (A very creative name, I know!) At a speedy 50 miles per hour, we were on our way to the emergency room. To give you a visual, I was still wearing my rollerblades and knee pads. My grandma had grabbed a towel to do a tourniquet. She was a teacher for many years, so she had first aid training. My grandpa was driving, my grandma was sitting in the middle seat, and I was on the right. Thankfully on the right side of whitey, there is a convenient hole that I like to call the litter hole. If ever you had trash and you weren’t sure what to do with it, there was a hole in the floor, tada! We never littered, but I thought it was quite funny that there was a hole in the floor of the vehicle. All I could think about was those stupid knee pads. It was scorching hot and whitey conveniently does not have air conditioning. I kept asking my grandma to take them off, but she said not to worry about them. (Of course she had to think about the timing of the tourniquet)
By the time we reached the nearest town with an emergency room (about 25 minutes later), the bleeding had stopped. I walked into the emergency room with no shoes, since I had been wearing rollerblades. We waited for a short time and then I went into a quiet room. A nurse came in who was helpful and gentle. When there is a gaping hole in your wrist, you definitely want someone who is gentle. He started numbing up my wound. As soon as he finished, a few people came into the room. They asked me to recount the story of the accident. Each person that came into the room said, “Oh my!” or “I’ve never seen anything like it!” or similar comments. There were probably at least five people that came in and made comments like these. I was slightly alarmed that I was being treated like a circus animal and not a patient. Soon enough, a doctor came in and directed us to a different, more experienced hospital (go figure.)
My parents had arrived by this time, so we hopped into the good ole’ park avenue and off we went. Every bump and turn was painful. The amazing numbing medicine was beginning to wear off. We arrived at the emergency room and had a wait in front of us. When the doctor walked in, I had to blink a few times. He was wearing a bright orange suit. I was a little confused. Was this a hospital or a circus? My doctor’s name was Patrick and he was the coolest doctor I’ve ever met. He started to talk about skin grafting. He explained the whole process and what would need to happen in between now and the surgery. For a whole week, my mom would have to bandage my wrist for me and clean the wound. (OUCH!) I still refused to look at the wound. When I did sneak a peak, I saw everything that you really shouldn’t see when you look at your arm. For those with weak stomachs, I won’t go into more details.
Once we finished at the hospital, we did what my family always does. We went out to eat. The most exciting part of every trip was lunch. We had to stop at a store to get some socks before we could go to Denny’s. I still didn’t have shoes, but the store didn’t have many options. At Denny’s, I ordered a milkshake, of course. A week later, I went in for surgery. When I came back to my grandparents’ house, my little cousin, Brian, told me a few words of wisdom. He said, “I keep my blood on the inside.” Thanks, Brian, thanks. Luckily, there was no permanent damage to my nerves, arteries, or tendons. I would like to point out that without the help and quick actions by my grandparents, I might not be here today. So, thanks for saving my life... :) Now, all I have to show for this is a weird burn-looking scar and an extremely odd story.
There it is! This is from today. It's a poor quality picture but you get the idea.
"As the responsible one, I rang the doorbell about 12 times"
I need to start saving these quotes. :P!
Good story
Posted by: Mehu | 04/09/2011 at 08:56 PM