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.

Fabrication

A number of years ago, I suffered an injury to my left arm.  One morning, while tending to some work stuff, a task I'd repeated every morning for countless years.  It was a part of my routine, when suddenly I felt a snap in my left arm and I could feel my bicep unraveling within the arm.  It felt exactly like a window shade when it's accidentally let go and it flies up to the roll, making a flapping sound at the end. Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!  I never heard any sound, obviously, then again, it was November and I was wearing a heavy jacket.

As an avid viewer of professional wrestling, I knew almost immediately what I had done.  It was obvious to me that my left bicep had ruptured and had retracted up into my upper arm.  Then, when I removed the heavy coat, I saw that my bicep had done just that.  I knew that my morning was not going to be my going straight home to sleep after my graveyard shift, but that I would be making a trek to the Emergency Room.

I can't recall how long of a wait I had before getting in to see doctors, but I do recall that every medical practitioner I interacted with claimed, without examination, that I had merely strained the muscle because if I had torn it, I'd be in much more pain.

I've always harboured a theory that fear drives pain.  That fear of the unknown, is what comprises a majority of pain.  Granted, if you stub your toe or have a limb torn off in some kind of violent farming accident or whatever else we human beings get ourselves wrapped up in, you're going to feel pain.  However, in this instance, because I knew first hand what I had done to myself, there was discomfort, but little pain.

Among the tests performed on me that day, was an ultrasound.  I laid back on a gurney as three young medical students moved the probe over my arm.  During this time, my insistence that the injury was a torn bicep, I kept getting rejected.  That my claims were stupid and misinformed.  "No way!" the lead insisted, "You'd be in intense pain if you tore the bicep."

Just as the young doctor-to-be finished that sentence, the surgeon came inside the darkened room that was lit only by the computer screen.  The surgeon asked how everyone was and before I could utter a single word, the young doctor at the helm of the Ultrasound Machine, piped up, laughing while he delivered his response., "He thinks that fear causes pain and because he thinks he knows what the injury is, is why he doesn't feel any pain."  I remember the whole room going silent, waiting for the surgeon to support them and laugh off my claims.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Sounds about right to me."

The trio of young doctors, two males and a female, lost all expression from their faces.  They'd just been schooled by the patient, me, and confirmed by the surgeon.  He scooched in between the doctors manning the Ultrasound, the light reflecting off his face.  I saw a middle-aged man with curly salt and pepper hair, wearing a bowtie.  I can't recall what his name was, as he introduced himself, but I do remember that his first name was Jeffrey, so I knew I was in good hands.

He confirmed that the ultrasound was inconclusive and that he'd likely have to do surgery to confirm the extent of the injury, but in examining my left arm from the outside, it was at best not torn all the way through, but in all likelihood, from the description I told about the unravelling feeling, that I had probably tore bicep.

The surgery was on December 4th, my late-father's birthday, so I knew I was going to be okay, and the next day, following the surgery, I had a chance to sit down with the surgeon to discuss what he'd found.  He explained that I had, indeed, tore the bicep, further explaining that it was a perfect tear.

Apparently, the tendon not only tore at the bottom of the bicep, but it had done so almost cleanly.  The doctor explained that he only had to trim a small portion of the end, before looping it through the two bones in my forearm to reattach the tendon on the underside of the bone.  Because such a small portion was necessary for removal, that I would most likely have full range of my arm when it healed.

It's very true.  In the decades since that injury (I can't believe it's been close to twenty years since that had happened), I have had full range of my left arm.  It's not nearly as strong, but I'm right-handed and the left always was a weak duckling, so no big deal.

The contraption I had to wear after surgery, to ensure the repair would heal properly, was insane and overly bulky.  The injury and surgery both occurred in the winter months so putting on and wearing a jacket was near impossible for a one-armed man, but I did manage to get out once in awhile, always being met with questions and queries.  The real reason behind the injury was stupid and uninteresting, so I came up with a much more interesting and entertaining reason behind the injury.

One time in January, a little over a month after my surgery, I was visiting a friend who lived in a small town outside Saskatoon.  We were conversing at a small table in the bar, when the waitress/bar maid came over to our table to ask if we wanted more to drink.  Seeing the contraption that my arm was twisted into, she asked what had happened, thus thrusting me into my tall tale.

I explained that I'd been downtown, doing Christmas shopping, when I heard a woman scream, "Stop him! He has my purse." I told the bar maid, that I snapped my head around toward the scream and saw a young fellow racing toward me, carrying the woman's purse.  Without hesitation, I explained, I immediately threw my arm out to clothesline the fella as he ran past.  I was successful in bringing down the assailant and retrieving the purse for the woman.

Looking up at the astonished look on the barkeep's face, I added a nugget that I never thought meant anything, claiming that there was a write-up about it in the Sunday Sun, which was a local newspaper for the City of Saskatoon, at the time, adding the title, "Local Samaritan Saves Christmas for Out of Town Shopper".

She was flabbergasted.  Speechless, but impressed.  "I'm going to go home and look for that article." she said, turning around to go back to her post behind the bar.  My friend, whispered to me, "She's really going to do that, you know.  People around here keep all that shit, ya know."  I just shrugged it off and never came clean.  Not until this blog, anyway.

What had really happened was: When it was time to take the garbage out to the bins after working the nightshift, my bicep tore off the bone when I attempted to pick up a large container of garbage.  That's it!  Boring as shit!  Lies or not, that story needed embellishment and I think my cover story was brilliant.  What do y'all think?

Black Ice - What Lies Beneath

In the past, I've sometimes found writing this blog to be therapeutic and a viable way to work through whatever issues that may have been plaguing my thoughts at that particular time...
I hope this helps me, today....

Without revealing my chronological age, I can verify that I've been driving for quite some time.  Living in Canada, you learn to drive a vehicle in several different ways to successfully combat the several different road conditions you may encounter in any given season.  Springtime tends to bring a lot of rain, causing roads to be slick and wet during the day, only to turn icy at night when the mercury drops below zero ℃.  Summer isn't too bad, I've found, but as soon as the leaves turn colour and the snow begins to fly, that's when we, driver's need to be more weary.

Black ice is our worst enemy.  It's the thin layer of ice that blankets the road, which is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, unless you're lucky enough to catch a faint glimmer of it.  A faint reflection of ice crystals catching the light at just the right angle, bouncing back to your pupil.  Most, sadly, ignore this and continue to drive just as they had been all summer long.  I've always credited myself as a better driver than these kinds of people.  I've always considered myself a better driver than most people, even on my worst day.  Last week, I had the absolute worst day of my driving career.

I'm not saying that I've never had an accident.  I've had a few misfortunes in my life.  I once lost control and crashed a small Chevrolet Chevette into a row of parked cars.  That was a terrible accident and I was severely injured at the time.  Most people, upon seeing the damage done to the car, questioned how I wasn't hurt more seriously.  It was a nasty one, I will admit, but afterward, I had no qualms about sitting behind the wheel.

This accident that I had on Thursday night/Friday morning, was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I'm afraid to drive.  I ventured out Sunday, but I was frightened by the aggressive drivers around me.  The big 4x4 trucks speeding up behind me.  I thought for sure, one of them were going to corral me into the ditch.  Last night I ventured out to buy some milk, which took me about four hours to get up the courage, as it'd been raining all day long.  The temperature was above zero℃, so there wasn't any icing issues, but it has snowed overnight and there are some errands that I sloughed off yesterday, that need to be done today.  As I look out the window, I can visibly see the ice and snow compiled on the city streets.  I don't know if I can go out in that...  Worse yet, I have to work tonight, which means venturing out in the cold winter night and driving that same route, passing that same corner where I lost complete control last week and slammed into the side of that silver GMC.

It took me about four hours to gain the courage to drive to the corner store for milk, yesterday.  I dread having to go to work, tonight...

I see on television, people who suffer severe anxiety following a terrible accident, and I've always mocked them.  Now I'm feeling about the same way.  I was feeling worthless before this occurred.  I feel even worse, now. 😣

I never found this to be therapeutic, this time 'round.
In fact, I feel a little worse off, now...

Impromptu Visit

Years ago, I found myself startled awake from a deep sleep.  Nightmares have never been something I've been prone to.  That's not to say I haven't experienced them, but not at the frequency that I know others have had.  On that particular night, I recall consuming a chocolate Easter egg or bunny before turning in for the night, and I immediately attributed the scary dream to the chocolate intake that evening.  Weeks later, I tried an experiment to see if I could get a repeat performance and while the dream that I had wasn't on par with the fright experienced that first night, the dream that I did have, was messed up nonetheless.

As I stated, I've had nightmares from time-to-time, but not like some unfortunate souls who are bombarded on a nightly basis.  Not to say that the few that I've had, haven't been frightful in their own right.  Usually, the dreams I have, concern the paranormal.  I see ghosts and apparitions in these dreams, but hardly ever anything to cause me to awaken in a panic with beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks, but serious enough to cause me to "sleep with one eye open".  Last night, though, as I began to fall asleep, I experienced something that felt borderline real.

I dreamt that I was on a city street, but not the one where I reside.  It was dark and the buildings around me appeared to be grey and blue in the dying light.  I was alone, when suddenly I was knocked to the ground by an unseen force.  The effort to turn over onto my back was easy as this thing, this entity, spun me over with a simple swipe of this jagged claw.  The creature appeared to be the blackest black I'd ever seen, darker than the shadows that surrounded us.  It had a faint blue aura outlining it's darkness and it's eyes...  It's eyes were the only source of light, albeit dark and grey as the same time.

It snarled at me with a mixture of anger and anguish as it leaped on top of my prone body and began swing it's jagged clawed arms back and forth, slashing me apart, howling and growling throughout the horrific ordeal.  I did my best to shield myself, but was failing miserably.  I can recall being confused and horrified throughout the attack.  Genuinely fearful for very own survival.  Then I woke up.

I looked around the dark room, realizing it was just a dream.  That I was, in fact, in the safety of my bedroom inside my house.  I looked beside me and the space was empty.  I immediately called for my cat, Monkey, to come and "protect me".  In the meantime, I closed my eyes, once more.

My eyes were only closed for a few seconds, an elongated pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room better, but when I opened my eyes, my gaze was met with the demon creature that I'd just dreamt about.  Only this time it was in my room, standing before my bed, inches from my face. It stood just under four feet tall, completely devoid of colour.  Darker than the darkness around it.  This time it looked down at me, flashing a jagged smile, as if it were about to finish the job it had began inside my dreamscape.  Just as it raised it's furled claw to take it's first strike, my cat, leaped onto the bed, passing through the darkened creature, which immediately dissipated into a vaporous cloud.

The room was empty.  What little light there was, lit up the room enough for me to recognize that it was just me and the cat who remained.  The remark I'd made earlier, pleading for the cat to come and "protect me", actually came to fruition.  He really did save me, I think.

The cat curled up on his corner of the bed, I folded my arm around him and whispered, "Thank you."  I closed my eyes and we slept peacefully, side-by-side, until morning.

I don't know what the cause for the impromptu visit was.  I don't know what the creature was or if it was actually real.  I do have a vivid imagination, but have never scared myself into a frenzy, before.  I never ate any chocolate before bed.  In fact, I had some chicken and rice about two hours before.  A healthy late night snack rather than a sugary one.  Only time will tell, I suppose.  If I survive the next encounter with this demonic creature, though I'm hoping never to cross paths with it again, I will certainly share that experience in this blog, as well.

    

(Image is similar to the creature that attacked me in my dream, only that one had long pointier ears.)

The Undertaker -- Then & Now

I remember the first time I ever viewed The Undertaker, in what was then, the World Wrestling Federation (WWF).  He was this mysterious and ominous man who seemed like he couldn't be beaten by anyone in the ring.  No amount of offense seemed to affect "The Deadman".  Even though, as a young boy, I already knew professional wrestling to be of predetermined outcomes, his character, nevertheless, intimidated me.  Death, seemed to surround this menacing foe.  I, literally, feared The Undertaker.

Decades have passed, and the image of The Undertaker have changed with the times.  Each version, having more personality traits of Mark Callaway, the man behind the myth, bleeding into the updated interpretations of what and of whom The Undertaker was and is.

It was during his "American Badass" era, where his form resembles that of a biker more so than that of an old west mortician, is where my respect for the man really began to take shape.  As a long time superstar of the WWF, today known as the WWE, Callaway's role behind the scenes was one of a ring general.  Kind of a Captain of the team, so-to-speak.  One who led by example, and hopefully those under him, the newbies coming up the ranks, would fall in line.

The man today, paints another picture.  He's still same Undertaker he ever was, to some degree, though his role in the company has been dialing back in recent years.  He's not a young man, anymore.  I can speak from experience that the years can catch up to you, if you're not looking in the right direction.  Although, in 'Taker's case, he exercises and works out on a regular basis, and I haven't picked up a weight in years, unless you include my cat.  The Undertaker of today, differs greatly from the one introduced over twenty years ago.

I won't lie to you, though.  The man, Mark Callaway protrays in (and out of) the ring STILL scares me, however nowadays, my level of respect for him equals the level of fear I have for The Undertaker!