Have you ever broken a bone?

Have I Ever Broken a Bone?

My Name Should’ve Been Grace

If there were an Olympic event for falling, tumbling, tripping, and somehow surviving to tell the story, I would have a gold medal, a silver medal, and probably a cast on at least one limb.

My parents should have named me Grace.

Not because I move elegantly through life, but because I desperately needed all the grace I could get.

So, have I ever broken a bone?

Oh, bless your heart. Pull up a chair.

The Tailbone Chronicles

My first major injury happened in middle school when I fell down our three-story back staircase while rushing to school.

Yes. Three stories.

No, it was not a graceful descent.

Yes, I broke my tailbone.

And because one broken tailbone apparently wasn’t enough excitement, I broke it again years later after I got married by falling down the stairs inside my own home.

Those stairs and I have a toxic relationship.

In fact, I’ve fallen down them multiple times. At this point, they should send me flowers on my birthday.

The Great 1980s Phone Sprint

If you grew up in the 1980s, you understand that when the phone rang, it was every sibling for themselves.

We didn’t have cell phones.

We had one wall phone.

With a cord so long and twisty it could stretch from the kitchen to your bedroom and wrap around your entire teenage social life.

One day, I was sprinting to beat my brother to the phone because I was absolutely convinced it might be a boy I liked.

In my haste, I slammed my toe into the wall and broke it.

Did I answer the phone?

I honestly don’t remember.

But if it was the boy I liked, I hope he appreciated my sacrifice.

Running Myself Into a Fracture

Years later, I became a serious runner and was logging 10-plus miles a day.

That is, until my foot finally waved the white flag and said, “Ma’am, absolutely not.”

I ended up with a stress fracture and spent a long time in a boot.

Apparently, even my bones think I overdo things.

The Night Spirit Water Took the Wheel

Now for one of my finest moments.

I had just undergone surgery on my left hand and was sporting a lovely cast.

One week later, I attended a party with friends.

There may have been a little too much “spirit water.”

And by “a little,” I mean enough that parts of the evening have been permanently erased from my memory.

According to my three guy friends, we were walking down a staircase when they tried to help me.

I, being fiercely independent, informed them:

“Leave me alone. I can do it myself.”

Famous last words.

They stepped back.

And I proceeded to tumble down the stairs like a rag doll in a washing machine.

They were convinced I was dead.

The next morning, every inch of my body hurt.

When I asked what happened, they replayed the story while trying not to laugh.

The Double-Hand Dilemma

At my follow-up appointment for my left hand, I casually mentioned that my right hand and shoulder were also hurting.

The doctor ordered X-rays and an MRI.

Diagnosis?

Broken right hand and a shoulder injury requiring surgery.

The doctor said, “We need to put a cast on your right hand.”

I stared at him in horror.

“Doctor, my left hand is already in a cast. If you put my right hand in one too, how exactly am I supposed to go to the bathroom?”

He paused.

Because this was, in fact, a valid concern.

I declined the cast and just powered through.

Was it smart?

Probably not.

Was it practical?

Absolutely.

Final Score

So, to answer the question:

Have I ever broken a bone?

• Tailbone (twice)
• Toe
• Foot stress fracture
• Right hand
• Probably my dignity several dozen times

And that’s only the highlights.

My life has been one long slapstick comedy featuring stairs, walls, running shoes, and questionable decisions.

But somehow, I’m still standing.

Usually.

As long as there are no stairs nearby.📞 🏃🏻‍♀️