At the age of six I fractured my arm while roller skating. That stinky, heavy plaster cast adorned my forearm for most of the summer. I remember the pain when it happened and my parents doubting that it was broken because the only time it hurt was when pressure was applied in certain ways. In fact, it was three days before they finally took me to the pediatrician who diagnosed a green stick break. The only other memory I have of it is the sensation of my arm floating away when that weighs-a-ton cast was sawed off my arm.
At the age of 23 a ski lift chair violently collided with my tailbone when I didn't get out of the way fast enough. Oh, that one hurt. Hurt bad. The fourteen hour ride a few days later to California sitting with one cheek propped on a pillow was very unpleasant. To this day bicycle riding is out of the question due to the unfortunate angle of that broken bone.
My mother tells me that I'm the only one of her children that had a broken bone. My daughters and grandchildren, well, not so lucky. Athena hasn't ever sported a cast but Eris won't even try to count the number of braces, crutches and casts that she has worn over the years.
I am the proud grandmother of five plus all of my extras. In the past 10 months five of them have fractured a bone. I have watched and taken photos as the same amused physician has put arm casts on three of them. Bubba's broken collarbone required a bra-like contraption around his shoulders. Jubee is the only one who has managed to remain in one piece but she has been warned.
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