The Fall and Break
What an ordinary day it was. I had taught my first two classes and was mid way through the third. For whatever reason I walked behind my desk and tripped on the cords that I had stepped over all year. I don't remember falling. I just remember being on the floor looking at my arm, which was strangely out of place. Time can't handle accidents, so it seems to warp somehow.
One of the boys came running. "Mrs. M., are you OK?"
Perhaps it was the concern he expressed on behalf of the class or my own pride, but instinctively holding the now free-swinging arm, I stood up. Stoically I announced that I had broken my arm and reached for my Yeti-like cup, a perfectly natural thing to do. I told the class to carry on and left them in the excellent care of our City Year volunteer. One of the few girls in the class immediately offered to carry my bag for me. Maybe she even said, "to the nurse." I don't remember.
We walked down the stairs, she carrying the bag which my husband describes as having dingle berries hanging from it, and I carrying my displaced limb. The nurse flew into action, immediately starting the Workers Comp paperwork. Though she could not touch my arm, she laid out the path I would need to follow. She called the assistant principal, who called my husband to say I thought I had broken my arm. This would be one of the very few days I forgot my phone at home. Distracted by the activity of the nurse's office, we waited for my husband to arrive.
Kevin drove me to a nearby doc in a box facility, following the instructions of the school nurse, and we sat in the waiting room, like it was something we did every day. They called us back, and somehow we managed to get my shirt off and a gown on. An x-ray confirmed a break just below the shoulder. The PA said I would need to see an orthopedist and recommended we visit one of the local emergency rooms. I peed in a cup and everywhere else to meet the mandatory drug test. The staff managed to put a body-hugging sling on without having to move the arm in question. They gave me an extra hospital gown, and we were on our way.
Next stop - a major hospital in town. After the preliminary interview, we scored a bed in the ER. Moving was painful, but more threatening were the coughs emanating from either side of our curtained accommodations. Who breaks her arm at the height of flu season?. I did get some pain relievers and anti-nausea medication though. The x-ray techs were not nearly as gentle as they had been at our first stop, but their work confirmed the break. We were dismissed with an Rx for Percocet and told that we would be seeing a Dr. M. soon. I would take two Percocet and kiss them good bye forever.
We would wait six days to see the doctor, and it would be Dr. C., not Dr. M. In that length of time, while the swelling went down, we would have the family over for my husband's 60th birthday. He would have to pick out and purchase his own cake. We would celebrate Valentine's Day meeting Doctor C. and getting a third set of x-rays. Surgery was scheduled for another week away. We did actually celebrate the day with a heart-shaped pizza and chocolates locally and exquisitely made. It doesn't get better than this!
During the next week at home I would continue to develop my skills in Google Classroom. I quickly realized how highly impractical grading "papers" had become. Now that I had harnessed the potential of Google Classroom, I might never turn back. What's amazing is that my 50 plus year-old self was adapting more readily to the technology than some of my students who are inseparable from their phones.
Eight days after the office visit we would make our way to the suburban surgery center on a rain-soaked day. Stripped down, I would wait hours for the procedure. I was asked multiple times to provide name, rank, and serial number. Had it not been for the gossip of the workers, I would have been bored crazy.
Finally they would roll me back to the operating room. They gave me a block, which would render the useless limb numb and proceeded to install a plate and screws to fix the break internally.
I really don't think it's fair to put someone into a deep sleep and then turn around and expect them to snap out of it. I wake up on my own terms, people... Also the smell of the tube they insist on jamming down your throat is nauseating. In addition, all of that post nasal drip my body harbors is stirred up for days. My husband helped me dress. I earned a new sling, and the staff wheeled me out.
Liquid diet, I don't think so. How about Beijing Beef from Panda Express washed down with a Pecan Turtle Blast from Sonic? I slept through the first night, but it would be weeks before I could rest comfortably.
How single people without assistance from family or friends make it is beyond me. My husband washed my hair twice in the kitchen sink. I don't know that I could have removed the post surgery drainage tube from his arm, as he did from mine.
I am now five months out from the fall, and thanks to physical therapy and exercise, I am almost back to normal. I have a significant surgical scar that will, I hope, fade over time. In another month I think the doctor will release me.
From the beginning, I have not been in control...of the fall, of the break, of the medical procedures, of Worker's Comp, of the physical therapy, or of the time it takes to recuperate. I suppose sharing my story allows me to regain some control. Maybe? Thank you for reading...
'
One of the boys came running. "Mrs. M., are you OK?"
Perhaps it was the concern he expressed on behalf of the class or my own pride, but instinctively holding the now free-swinging arm, I stood up. Stoically I announced that I had broken my arm and reached for my Yeti-like cup, a perfectly natural thing to do. I told the class to carry on and left them in the excellent care of our City Year volunteer. One of the few girls in the class immediately offered to carry my bag for me. Maybe she even said, "to the nurse." I don't remember.
We walked down the stairs, she carrying the bag which my husband describes as having dingle berries hanging from it, and I carrying my displaced limb. The nurse flew into action, immediately starting the Workers Comp paperwork. Though she could not touch my arm, she laid out the path I would need to follow. She called the assistant principal, who called my husband to say I thought I had broken my arm. This would be one of the very few days I forgot my phone at home. Distracted by the activity of the nurse's office, we waited for my husband to arrive.
Kevin drove me to a nearby doc in a box facility, following the instructions of the school nurse, and we sat in the waiting room, like it was something we did every day. They called us back, and somehow we managed to get my shirt off and a gown on. An x-ray confirmed a break just below the shoulder. The PA said I would need to see an orthopedist and recommended we visit one of the local emergency rooms. I peed in a cup and everywhere else to meet the mandatory drug test. The staff managed to put a body-hugging sling on without having to move the arm in question. They gave me an extra hospital gown, and we were on our way.
Next stop - a major hospital in town. After the preliminary interview, we scored a bed in the ER. Moving was painful, but more threatening were the coughs emanating from either side of our curtained accommodations. Who breaks her arm at the height of flu season?. I did get some pain relievers and anti-nausea medication though. The x-ray techs were not nearly as gentle as they had been at our first stop, but their work confirmed the break. We were dismissed with an Rx for Percocet and told that we would be seeing a Dr. M. soon. I would take two Percocet and kiss them good bye forever.
We would wait six days to see the doctor, and it would be Dr. C., not Dr. M. In that length of time, while the swelling went down, we would have the family over for my husband's 60th birthday. He would have to pick out and purchase his own cake. We would celebrate Valentine's Day meeting Doctor C. and getting a third set of x-rays. Surgery was scheduled for another week away. We did actually celebrate the day with a heart-shaped pizza and chocolates locally and exquisitely made. It doesn't get better than this!
During the next week at home I would continue to develop my skills in Google Classroom. I quickly realized how highly impractical grading "papers" had become. Now that I had harnessed the potential of Google Classroom, I might never turn back. What's amazing is that my 50 plus year-old self was adapting more readily to the technology than some of my students who are inseparable from their phones.
Eight days after the office visit we would make our way to the suburban surgery center on a rain-soaked day. Stripped down, I would wait hours for the procedure. I was asked multiple times to provide name, rank, and serial number. Had it not been for the gossip of the workers, I would have been bored crazy.
Finally they would roll me back to the operating room. They gave me a block, which would render the useless limb numb and proceeded to install a plate and screws to fix the break internally.
I really don't think it's fair to put someone into a deep sleep and then turn around and expect them to snap out of it. I wake up on my own terms, people... Also the smell of the tube they insist on jamming down your throat is nauseating. In addition, all of that post nasal drip my body harbors is stirred up for days. My husband helped me dress. I earned a new sling, and the staff wheeled me out.
Liquid diet, I don't think so. How about Beijing Beef from Panda Express washed down with a Pecan Turtle Blast from Sonic? I slept through the first night, but it would be weeks before I could rest comfortably.
How single people without assistance from family or friends make it is beyond me. My husband washed my hair twice in the kitchen sink. I don't know that I could have removed the post surgery drainage tube from his arm, as he did from mine.
I am now five months out from the fall, and thanks to physical therapy and exercise, I am almost back to normal. I have a significant surgical scar that will, I hope, fade over time. In another month I think the doctor will release me.
From the beginning, I have not been in control...of the fall, of the break, of the medical procedures, of Worker's Comp, of the physical therapy, or of the time it takes to recuperate. I suppose sharing my story allows me to regain some control. Maybe? Thank you for reading...
'
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