Personal Injury

Sunday mornings, there's no DJ who mans the radio stations.  It's all run via computer software and in the course of playing music for the first few hours, the station will repeat some of the segments that other DJs had produced throughout the week.  One of the subject matters covered this week, people who wished they had a more interesting story as to why they sustained an injury.  Right away, I recalled the day I tore my bicep and the harrowing details that followed.

PART ONE: THE INJURY

I had been off of work prior to this injury, due to..., what else?  An injury.  I had a traffic accident that had resulted in a serious back injury which required months and months of rehabilitation.  I'd returned to work only weeks before this event occurred.

I worked nights at a local retail establishment and in the mornings, before we were set to depart for the day, we'd perform a thorough clean up of discarded packaging and other refuse.  We had put a stand up air compressor out that night and had an empty box, which we had filled part way with plastic wrap and other shit.  It didn't weigh very much at all, but when I picked the box up to place onto a flatbed cart, I felt something snap inside my arm.  It took me by surprise and as I recall, I scurried backwards into the racking, holding my arm with my free hand.

I'd be lying if I said it hurt a lot, because to be honest, it actually kinda felt cool, but it's definitely not something I wish to repeat.  It felt like an unraveling, which in actuality, it is.  I recall the blinds that my great-aunt, Chrissie, had at her house.  As a child, we weren't allowed to adjust the height of them because, I'm guessing, at some point, one of us idiot kids, tugged on the blind and let it go, sending it skyrocketing to the top of the window, thus requiring a tall ladder to scale to retrieve and return to the lower portion of the window.  If you've experienced this, you'd be familiar with the thwap-thwap-thwap sound the blind makes as it reaches the top.  This is exactly how my arm felt.

I knew right away what I had done to myself and when work was finished, instead of heading home for some much needed rest, I instead found myself in the waiting room the the University Hospital.

PART TWO: A QUESTIONABLE DIAGNOSIS

The case was performed by medical interns, who first sent me for X-rays, which proved inconclusive, so they followed up by performing an ultrasound on my arm.

The whole time, I was insisting that I had torn the bicep, explaining that I felt it unravel inside my arm, but they weren't having any of that.  They kept forcing their belief that I would be in a world of torturous pain if I had, indeed, torn the muscle from the bone.

I insisted that pain is only a figment of the imagination.  It's fear-based and most of those who experience pain, manifest it solely because of a fear of the unknown.  Like, "Holy shit! What did I do to my arm?" kind of bullshit.  This was not the case, here.  I firmly held my ground, insisting that this was the reality.  The young know-it-alls would not succumb to my claims.

The ultrasound proved as inconclusive as the X-rays were.  It was at this time that the surgeon popped in for a consult.  The interns, having fun at my expense, tried to get the doctor in on the teasing.  "He claims that pain is fear-based and because he 'knows' what he did, he's not feeling any pain." 

I recall the doctor pausing, leaning his head from left to right, then replied, "Yes.  That sounds reasonable."  Suddenly, the room got quiet, the physician leaning in between two of the three young docs, his eyes fixed on the video feedback on the monitor.

"It's difficult to see just how bad the damage is.  We'll have to open it up to get a good look."

Long story short (too late 😉), the surgeon pulled me aside the day after the surgery and reported to me with a huge smile smeared across his face.  "Yep!  You tore that sucker clean off the bone!"  He slapped my knee, continuing the tale with a chuckle in his voice, "It was beautiful.  You couldn't have torn it more perfectly."

He went on the explain that normally when someone tears the tendon, it looks like a bomb went off, but in my case, the tendon had torn right at the bottom most portion.  He told me all they had to do was trim some of the shredded portion off then they pulled the tendon down through the two bones of my forearm, then attached the tendon to the back of the Humerus bone of my upper arm.  Because so little of the tendon had to be removed, he speculated that I should reclaim full use of the arm.

I've seen people who suffered a much worse injury than mine, who were left with a semi-crooked arm.  They can never extend their arm fully, whereas myself, I can.

PART THREE: THE AFTERMATH

Immediately following my meeting with the surgeon, I was fitted for an odd looking apparatus that was designed to hold my arm in a certain position to better the healing process.  Hold it in a manner where full movement would not be an issue in the future.

The apparatus was odd.  It had a cuff that clipped to my upper arm, with a hard immoveable cable attached to the lower portion which kept my arm twisted so the inside of my arm would face upward.  It was quite cumbersome and it was difficult to wear a jacket.  This, of course, occurred in late-November, early-December, when it's necessary to wear a heavy coat.  With this contraption strapped to my arm, I couldn't hardly zip the jacket up, which made me appear to be quite the attraction.

Of course everyone is going to ask what happened to me.  You couldn't look at the pathetic nature of my appearance without wondering, "WTF?!"

The truth, which I shared with you at the top of this page, was boring and lackluster, so I embellished it some.  Embellish isn't really the correct term, but exaggeration is completely accurate. 😂

On one particular evening, I was with my best bud, my brotha-from-anotha-motha, at a local drinking establishment.  Actually, it was the one and only bar in the town of Delisle, where Dan had been living with his family.  Prior to this date, we'd partied in that bar a few times.  It was especially fun when they'd have karaoke.  I admit that I can't clearly recall any of those prior visits due to high alcohol consumption, but on this day, I don't believe I was drinking.  The last thing I'd wanna do is fall down and reinjure my arm.

The waitress came over to see if we'd like another beverage, when she noticed the contrivance strapped to my arm and immediately asked what had happened.  The truth being a snooze-fest, I changed the story to the one I had been repeating to everyone I had been encountering up to that point.

PART FOUR: THE STORY

I told her that I was walking downtown when I heard a woman scream, "Stop him! He has my purse!"  I looked ahead of me, where I noticed the woman screaming for help.  Between her and me, was this fellow running through the crowded sidewalk.  Being a fan of pro wrestling, I knew straight away that I could remedy this situation quick and as the man was about to run past me, I extended my left arm, throwing it into the man, forcing him to the ground.

The waitress was enthralled, leaning in, mouth open and hanging on my every word.

"Right away," I told the server, "I knew that I had torn something in my arm when I clotheslined that thief."  

The waitress leaned back, muttering "Holy shit!"

Enjoying the ridiculous reaction I was getting, I added the tagline, "They wrote a story about it in the Sunday Sun.  I believe they called it, "Local Samaritan Saves Christmas For Out-of-Town Shopper".

"I'm going to go home and check that out." she said, before returning to the bar with our order.

"Why'd you tell her that?" Dan asked me, "Why'd you tell her about the article.  People out here don't throw anything away.  She's going to go home and search through every damned paper looking for the story you just told and she's never going to find it."

PART FIVE: THE EPILOGUE

I couldn't call into the radio station to tell them this incredible, albeit, made up story, but perhaps the subject will come up again, one day, and I will be able to call in and share some of my silliness.

Poor AJ Styles, clothesline by John Cena.

Sunday Afternoon Picnic

I was driving the (Route) Eight a couple weeks ago, when I found myself stopped at the traffic light on the corner of 8th Street East and Cumberland Avenue.  From my perspective, I could see clear into Cumberland Park which is located across from where I was halted.

Through the trees, I could see a couple young lovers rolling around in the grass.  One was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt, while the female appeared to be clad, head-to-toe, in a white gown, of some sort.  They appeared quite frisky, which took me by surprise with the crowds also enjoying the park.  Then again, all the other families were clear across the park, enjoying the shade of the taller trees.

"Awe. Young love." I thought to myself, quietly.  No sooner had I thunk those thoughts than things suddenly turned from frisky to frantic.  Now I saw the white dress sitting on top of the fella in the yellow tee and instead of romantic gestures, the person on top was feeding the guy in yellow, and it wasn't ham sandwiches, but some of a knuckle variety.

Rights and lefts, repeatedly bouncing off this guy's skull.  By this time, the light had changed and I was stopping at a stop at the southwest corner of the park.  Just as the passenger I'd just picked up, got situated, the guy in the yellow shirt had broken free from the beating he was receiving and hightailed it for the bus.  Close behind him, was the person in the dress.  I say person, as this was not a young woman like I had supposed, but a man.  A bearded man, running after this younger fella.  I could now see that the fella in the yellow tee, was just a kid, probably no more than twenty years old or so.  

"Get me out of here!" the young fella cried, "That guy's f*cking nuts!"

Not realizing the situation, completely, I blurted out, "Dude.  You just got your ass beat by a guy wearing a dress."  Admittedly, now that I've voiced the quote out loud, that was definitely a dickish thing to say to a guy, especially one who's bleeding from his forehead.

As I pulled away from the curb, the bearded dress-guy was breathing on the door.  Nervously, the young fella, continued his explanation. "I think he's one of those f*g people." (His words, not mine, but... Yeah.  I suspect he may have been light in the loafers, so to speak.)

We arrived downtown, where my supervisor met up with me.  I'd call City Emergency to arrange for the police to meet the fella so he could give a statement as to what happened, which if I were to speculate, the kid likely approached the man in the dress and called him a vulgar term and was greeted with a pummeling.  I don't know and if that were the case, I doubt buddy, there, would admit to instigating the situation.  Of course, Mr. Dress-guy could have turned the other cheek, too.  Whatev's.

No one ever f*cked with Klinger.

Hit and Run

Being a professional driver, my travels take me all over this city.  Even in my former professions, I found myself traveling the highways and bi-ways of our fair province, so I've had the privilege to see many great things.  I've gotten to see a wild bison.  That was cool.  I had a near-miss collision with a moose.  That was an interesting experience.  I've even gotten to see the midnight sky, lit up by the dancing Aurora Borealis.  Unfortunately, there are some things I wish I hadn't seen.

The first time I ever drove solo as a long distance courier, a small bird flew in front of the van I was driving and sadly, before I had a chance to slow the vehicle, the bird had tried to fly out from in front of me, but I clipped it with the radio antenna and (thankfully) it was killed instantly.  I had to pull over to remove the little bird from the antenna, as it's neck had fractured and was still attached to the van.  I recall crying real tears as I knelt on the side of the road, this little bird lying before me.

Driving transit, I've seen many deceased carcasses on the road.  Birds, dogs, cats, etcetera.  Yesterday, I saw a small fox lying at the side of Lowe Road just before you enter into Evergreen in Saskatoon.  The needless loss of life, broke my heart, but because it was a fox, it reminded me of the time I was leaving Tisdale, heading south on highway 35.  I passed by a scene that would have staggered even the most callous of hearts.  It appeared that a mother fox had been hit by a car, but instead of running for safety, her two kits stayed by her side, ultimately being run over themselves.  It was a horrifying scene and a memory I wish I would lose quickly.

In addition to that wild life, I'm seeing lots of birds about town.  These ones baffle me, but I suspect that they're swooping down to grab the carcasses of the gophers that are strewn about on the streets.  Wherever there's a park or a field, there's sure to be dead gophers about.  I understand the plight of the birds.  I recall once upon a time, driving a former bosses car back from Winnipeg, when I struck an owl that was swooping down to grab a quick meal.  Instead it lost it's life and my boss needed to replace the grille in his VW Golf.

Worst thing I've seen, to date, was this morning.  I was driving by a fresh kill.  So fresh that the lower extremities of this poor little soul, was flattened by whatever motor vehicle happened by, it's limbs still flailing.  It horrified me and shook me to the very core of my being.

Given the size ratio of a gopher to a motor vehicle is gargantuan.  A forty foot transit bus weighing over 42K lbs, is no match for much of anything, especially a little gopher.  On Friday morning I was heading south on Preston, when a little fella ran out in front of me.  I damn near lost control of the bus as I hit the brakes.  I missed it, but felt it wasn't long for this world and yep!  On my next pass by that part of the street, it had, in fact, been hit and the magpies had already descended down for their feast.

One early morning in 2017, I was driving past an acreage outside of Birch Hills.  They had two dogs, one a large shaggy white dog, while the other was a wiry black short-haired dog.  They would often stand at the edge of the property and bark at passing traffic, even pursuing a foot chase on occasion.  On this particular morning, I saw the two dogs, only their attention wasn't aimed at the traffic.  Instead, I saw that the large shaggy white dog was motionless, laying on it's side, while the black dog was laying perpendicular, with it's head resting atop of it's pal.  My heart broke. 💔 It was apparent that during one of their foot chases, the white dog had been hit and was deceased.  My heart goes out to anyone who's lost a pet, especially when it's a hit and run case, like this seemed to be.

A few days later, I was passing that same acreage outside Birch Hills, when I was greeted by the same duo, standing out on the edge of the property, tails wagging and barking at passing vehicles and equipment.  "What the hell?" I thought, to myself.  I don't know the motive behind the dogs putting on that display prior to this day, but I thought they must have some kind of sense of humour.  Silly dogs.

I don't handle death very well.  People are one thing, but animals, man!  I can't deal with that shit.

B.O.L.O.

 

I've only been driving for transit for a little over a year and during this time frame, I've driven the 80s route.  The Crazy 8s, as some of the drivers with more seniority call them, consists of the runs that travel into the neighbourhoods of Rosewood, Briarwood and Stonebridge, as well as a single run that extends from the Circle Park Mall to downtown and two that run to and from the University from Circle Park Mall maneuvering us there via Taylor Street and/or Main Street.  The latter, Main Street is usually my return route from University Drive, which is Route 82.  I usually have some extra time on this route and throughout the year, I've found individual stops where I can pause and hold back to make up some of the time, as you never want to arrive at a stop prior to the scheduled stop.  It was during one of these stops that I noticed the wanted poster stapled to a tree.

At a stop just around the corner from Quance Avenue, protected in the shade from the harsh rays of the scorching sun overhead, I had noticed a little poster stapled to a birch tree and during one of my stoppages, I ventured out to investigate the sign.  It read "Wanted: Lost Kitten".  Right away, without hesitation, my heart went out to this family who'd lost their young ward.

As a parent to a feline, I know all too well how devastated the young family must be feeling during this time of separation, especially considering the age of the young kitten.  Judging by the quality of the poster and the information it garnered.  It described the small black kitten, named 'Argent', quite vividly, adding how the little fella had escaped while the family were unloading groceries from the car.  Near the bottom of the poster, the family added a quote: Last seen chasing butterflies by the school.  Sure enough, about a block and a half away, there was a public school.  I pictured the family, dressed as police interrogators, ringing doorbells as far as the eye can see, interviewing possible witnesses and low and behold, they came across an individual who remembered seeing young Argent chasing the fluttering butterflies across the way.

Thankfully, a few days later, the family had provided an update to all the Wanted posters, indicating that Argent had been found and was safe at home, once more.  I was relieved that the ordeal had found it's happy ending.  Argent was safe at last.