I think I broke somthing!
I think I Broke Something!
Most people, who have never broken bones before, probably don’t understand how painful it can be. Especially when people don’t even believe you! Now, I know what you’re thinking. What is this girl talking about? Well, you’re in the right place. And I’m here to tell you what I’m talking about.
I was having a pretty good day at camp. We were all laughing at each other because we were all soaking wet in our bathing suits because we had just got out of the pool. We were getting nearer to a flight of stairs. I wasn’t really paying attention. . . .
“AAAAAAAAAA!” I screamed.
I heard a crack, then a thump, as my head hit the floor. Before I knew what had happened, I stared to cry. Not just cry, I was screaming on the ground, moaning like a baby. I could feel the pain running up my ankle into my bones like needless. I had never experienced so much pain in my life. It was agony. All the kids started to crowd around me as my mind went fuzzy. I could tell every one was trying to get closer.
“Sunshine! Sunshine”! Someone called some where to the right. . . .Or was it the left?
“SunshineSparkle! Are you OK?!SunshineSparkle!??”
A nearby counselor was walking by. A bunch of the girls went running up to him, all of them trying to be the one to tell the consular what had happened. When he heard what had happened, he ran over to me, telling kids to move out of the way who hadn’t ran over to the consular and the kids who were now trying to run back to the spot where I was laying in front of him. When he got over to me, the kids reformed the circle, now around the consular and me. As he tried to touch my ankle to examine it, I screamed, “No! Don’t!STOP!” The counselor seemed to realize this situation was more serious then he thought. He raised his eyebrow and reached down and picked me up.
Now, can you imagine how annoying this was getting? He started carrying me somewhere I didn’t know. Finally, I saw we were heading for the nurse's office. I had never been in the nurse’s office before. It felt strange that this was the first reason for me going to the nurse’s office because most people go because they have a tiny scratch or have a bruised knee.
The counselor I didn’t know laid me down in a sitting position on the nurse's table, and the nurse, after having a conversation with the counselor she obviosly knew, very carefully picked up my ankle. I winced at the touch of her cold, nurse-like hand, and she elevated it on a soft pillow. I gave a sigh of relief. Then she disappeared behind her nurse’s closet for a few moments, rummaged through a bit, then somehow got an ice pack and placed it on my ankle. Its coldness felt good on my ankle now that it was so swollen it looked like there was a miny sour apple on my ankle.
Now, I know this might not sound that bad, but I was in so much pain! I kept moaning without really meaning to. When the nurse asked me, “So, what exactly happened?” I felt like this was kind of a silly question, but I told her everything I remembered. I finished talking to see that she was going to call my mom, to take me home, or something like that. But she just looked confused like the counselor. What was wrong with them? She looked like she was thinking about what she had just heard. She then said in a matter-of-fact sort of way, “Ok, you can go home.”
“What!” I yelled without trying to raise my temper.
“I. . .I,” I sputtered. “I think I broke something!” I had clearly not realized the nurse was not that nice. Without any other arguement, I tried to hosit myself off the nurse's table, but, once again, the counselor lifted me off the table but did nothing more. They watched me leave, limping, struggling under the now much heavier weight of my camp bags, my clothes still all wet from the swimming pool.
When I got to the bus, I took the first seat I could find. I was always the last one to get dropped off. I propped up my ankle on the seat and thought how I couldn’t wait to get home to my mom and tell her what had happened.
About an hour later, when the bus driver reached my apartment, the bus driver motioned to my mom to come on the bus. (I usually just go to the street, and I meet my mom there.) When the bus driver told my mom what had happened, my mom looked horror struck. I started to limp off the bus, scared to put any weight on my right ankle, struggling over the weight of my camp bags. My mom ran into the bus and took my bags from me and put my arm around her shoulder. My mom thanked the bus driver for taking care of me and telling her what happened and then half carried me, half helped me off the bus stairs and into the lobby of our apartment. When she got me up the elevator and into our apartment, she put my ankle up on the couch and got an ice pack for it.
After that, my mom asked me again had happened. Again, just like I had told the nurse, I told my mom as much as I remembered. When I finished talking and looked up at her to say something, she nodded, than said, in a very motherly sort of way, “OK,” shook her head, then went into the kitchen and started calling someone. When he answered, I realized it was my step-dad, Nick. When she got off the phone, she told me Nick was coming home from work to come and see me as soon as he got off the phone. (He worked about two blocks away from our house.) When she sat back down on the other end of the couch, the pain somehow started again. It was like the needles had given me a long enough rest and were started up again, having another race up my ankle. Without really meaning to, I started to cry again.
When Nick got home from work about five minutes later, he asked what had happened even though my mom had told him over the phone. I thought he just wanted to hear me say it. I looked at my mom for help. I didn’t want to re-tell the story again. My mom seemed to get the message, and Nick seemed to also.
But then I realized something: Nick would believe me. So, I told Nick the whole story, from when we got out of the pool to that very moment. That time I really tried hard to remember everything that happened. When I finished, I looked at Nick, trying to find his mysterious expressions. He seemed to be thinking over what I had just said. Then, finally, he said, “It probably just has to rest.”
I was suddenly so mad I forgot about my ankle hurting me. Than I said, not caring about my tone of voice, “I BROKE MY ANKLE!”
Well, anyway, you might think this if the end of the story. But my birthday was coming up, and Nick had put my ankle in an ace bandage for me. A few days later, I was still nagging my mom to get an x-ray to see if my ankle was broken and my parents agreed. And. . .
Wow! Must have really hurt. I've never broken any thing so I don't know what it feels like.
Comment Posted on November 18, 2011 at 10:00 AM by
First of all, I'm SO impressed with how hard you worked on this! I really felt I was right there wqith you as I read the story. I'm so sorry no one belived you. Did your parents ever apologize? Did they ever call the camp and complain? Anyway, I'm glad your back on both feet!
Comment Posted on November 2, 2011 at 02:31 PM by