Part 2 -- 40 Years Ago Today, A Classmate Broke Both My Arms

This is Part Two of a 2-part piece about the event in the title, which occurred on October 5, 1983. Here is Part One in case you missed it. All names used here are pseudonyms. 

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SUPER BRIEF RECAP

Part One concluded with me lying on my back flailing my arms after having been deliberately tackled by a classmate while we played “touch” football during P.E. Our teacher, Mrs. Donaldson, who had inadvertently left us unsupervised, returned shortly thereafter….

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I wasn’t thinking about Adam, who had tackled me. That would have to wait. I was thinking about pain. My right arm wanted to explode. My arms flopped and flapped as Mrs. Donaldson walked me to the nurse’s office.

If I was now worried about seventh grade, I learned later that she suspected the shit would hit her own fan. Unsupervised kids in P.E.? Not so good, but I’m getting ahead of myself.   

My mother taught at the same middle school, so it wasn’t long before we were on our way to the radiologist on the far side of town. 

The J. Geils Band’s Centerfold was on the radio, which gave me something to focus on. 

It was now mid-afternoon.  

We waited for hours in the radiologist’s packed lobby.

My mom bought me a can of Coke from the vending machine, which was a big deal. She was strict when it came to soda, so this seemed like a good omen. She flipped through the magazines for me and found an issue of Sports Illustrated, the one magazine I devoured every Friday after school. My mom put this one on my lap and I read about a New England Patriots player who sustained a crippling injury due to an illegal tackle. That would later put things into perspective.

At long last, a nurse called us in.

My right arm couldn’t defend itself against even the slightest touch. My left arm still only throbbed. 

The radiologist was a reassuring, soft-spoken giant of a man.

“Which is your dominant hand,” he asked.

“My right one,” I answered.

F—. I had figured out that consequence while I was still at school.

X-rays revealed a clean fracture. I had to wait for my cast’s plaster to be prepared, so the nurse administered a numbing agent to my arm. I was flat on my back.

“Whatever you do, don’t lift your right arm,” she told me. 

In my young mind, she surely meant the exact opposite, like a reverse Jedi mind trick. I wanted to test the limits. This wasn’t the time, but so be it. I needed to see the bruising on my arm – any visible manifestation of what had happened on the inside. I used my left hand to raise my right arm above my face. It was then that the throbbing in my left arm screamed. I dropped my right arm, which thumped onto my face. Lesson learned: listen to your nurse.

Photo by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash

Getting my cast was cool in a “let’s never do this again” kind of way. It was like being in 5th grade making animals out of papier-mâché. No difference at all — a small cat; or a cast that encircled my palm and extended from my wrist to my armpit. There was no colored tape to cover casts in those days, so I had a meticulously fashioned warm, white clunker.

“Your friends will be able to sign it,” the doctor reassured me.

I now had the first opportunity to describe the unnatural pain in my left arm. He looked concerned.

“Well, let’s X-ray old lefty,” he said. 

After another bombardment of 1980s-style radiation, I sat with my mom in a small side room. It was the first time she saw my cast. 

“Feel it, it’s warm,” I said, “pretty cool, right?” 

I tried. 

It was already dark outside when the doctor returned.

“Well, buddy,” he said to me. 

“Well, Mrs. K.,” he said to my mom.

“I have bad news. Your left arm is broken.”

My mother breathed, shifted, fainted, and fell from her chair. I thought the floor was headed straight into her face, but her shoulder caught the fall. I had never seen someone faint, but I knew she was out cold. 

Seventh grade seemed far away.

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