Broken hand versus Broken Foot
Background: The last time I decided to donate a little self-deprecating brainfart into the blogosphere, I spoke of an injury that I had incurred while promising that I would be thinking constantly about articles while the slow process of healing continued. I lied- I had thought of some ideas but most were time sensitive1 and others were essentially humorless. It became pretty clear that my myopic approach to writing is not served well by disciplined preparation. But, much like a frustrated six year old at the County Fair, the important thing is getting back on that horse. I was going to take a blow-torch to your inner-workings and do the inevitable “McCain versus Obama” piece, but I’m trying to enjoy writing again, not opine about two assholes who are trying to out-manipulate the public into voting for them. The longer I stayed on this roller coaster of alternating ideas of uber-serious and completely wacky articles it became clear to me that I needed to take a deep breath and just get back to the basics.
So, I punched a wall2. After finally returning home after a weekend of broken hands and even brokener promises by post-harmonious British bands, I came back to Charlotte and flirted with the idea of going to the hospital. This would not happen for three weeks. At first, my logic was relatively sound- the swelling was going down, it wasn’t really hurting, and my movement, while impaired, seemed like something better healed naturally rather than, you know, by a person with extensive medical knowledge. So, deciding that I was in fact smarter than medicine, I ran to my local Rite-Aid and bought three items: a 15 pound bag of ice, a roll of athletic tape, and a bottle of 250 200 mg Advil. My daily routine dealt closely with all three of these items; a routine that would not be hindered by consuming laughable amounts of alcohol or constant pleadings from my friends to seek clearly (in retrospect) needed medical advice. After polishing off the Advil in about thirteen days, I started to realize that maybe the reason my hand wasn’t bothering me too much was because I was developing the most pussy addiction of them all- a desire to eat over-the-counter pain pills at the rate of about fifteen a day. Throw in the fact that my movement had not improved at all, and it was obvious this wasn’t just a jammed knuckle as I had hoped.
Waiting in a UrgentCare waiting room for two hours sucks. Waiting in an UrgentCare waiting room for two hours on a Saturday sucks. Waiting in an UrgentCare waiting room for two hours on an early Saturday morning with the only three sense-related things you are interpreting are the brightness of the lights hurting your thinly opened hungover eyes, the sound of an abrasive boyfriend telling his girlfriend to ‘shut up’ over his cellphone, and the smell of old tuna-salad waving off the older couple sitting next to you- now, that is hell. Compared to that, having a questionably trained tiny Asian woman bend my hands in ways uncommon for brutish Western males was a cake walk. After getting my X-Ray done (her response was unforgettable: “Have you not been in a great deal of pain these last three weeks?”), it was determined I had what they call a ‘boxer’s fracture.’3 From there, I was fitted for a hard cast for a month, then a softer splint type deal for another couple of weeks. There is much more to be said, but first the broken hand must meet its opponent, broken foot.
I’ve broken major bones in my feet on at least three occasions and have to say that those injuries aren’t as cool as people make them out to be. Probably the most comical of these injuries was when I was a first year in college and participating in what could only be called a Box-Wine-Stand (think Keg Stand but where you aren’t actually putting your hands on the ground- they are just funneling you crap-wine while you are swinging upside down, much like a vampire), because, you know, I was cool because I drank a lot and stuff, and there is no better way to feel the coolest than to drink the most in the most unnecessary fashion. Later that evening, it was my task to get some of those trying to get me dead-drunk cigarettes for all of their hard-work. Walking to our local convenience store, I tripped on a curb and feel down. Not thinking anything of it, I stood up once again- my foot gave way and I feel on my ass, leading one of my friends to be generous enough to essentially pick me up and drop me off at the bottom of a stair-well to be found by the unlucky bastard who would have to drive me to the hospital. Long story short, I was in a boot for about three months.
Let’s Fight!- Injuries are like rainy-days to our bodies- they ruin your plans, but if treated correctly they do give you a pretty seal-proof reason to not move a muscle. Having both a broken hand and broken foot are exercises in adaptation, pain management, and appropriately-timed exposure, so the hotter chick at the bar sees you in your wounded state4. Both injuries impair you for the obvious reasons, but find themselves to be extremely annoying for the little problem that likes to poke its head out at you and surprise you. When I had a broken foot, for instance, these problems were bred in the fact that I really was not supposed to move my feet at all. Now, to save you the obvious joke, I know this sounds ideal for my physical productivity levels- but just doing the most mundane of tasks- like walking 200 feet to get my gun cleaner- would just weigh me down. My broken hand would prove to be equally menacing, as I had gotten my hard cast on in the beginning of June, which is typically the busiest part of my profession’s year, not to mention the Southeastern climate in which I live guaranteed that my hand smelled as bad as Pinky’s nutsack.
I’ve often found myself in conversations with the type of questions like “if you could lose one sense what would it be,”5 and that is the way I intend on approaching “would you rather have a broken hand or broken foot?” The biggest issue with having a broken foot is movement, and if you’re like me, ‘issue’ is the right word there, not ‘problem.’ Having a broken foot gives you the best excuse known license (besides paralysis) to literally sit on your ass and do nothing. I think I played about 50 hours of Tony Hawk during those eight weeks, and I stick by the fact I have yet to meet somebody that can beat me in Tony Hawk 4 for PS26 (even though this guy would clearly fuck me up). I wasn’t going to class anyways, but did well in the semester because my professors knew I wasn’t physically able to make it- sympathy rests right next to jealousy as kings of ways of making people help you. Besides that, I caught up on a few seasons of 24, illegally downloaded enough music to guarantee me a place in RIAA’s circle of hell, and drank.
Broken hand, not quite so plushy. The first big thing one realizes with a broken hand is that he or she is now unable to greet people in a natural, fluid way. Instead of the polite, firm handshake, you’ve got to explain to your public about how you are hurt, why you are hurt, etc. While this would occasionally lead to girls coming up and initiating contact, most were long gone after my first mention of how I did it.7 While this is merely another reason to drink more while out and about, it becomes a significant issue at the office. I decided to hop on the ol’ band-wagon and go for the Celtics this year in the playoffs; to show my support I got a Celtic green cast which at the time thought could maybe get me a free beer or something when out watching Boston’s playoff run. Problem was: its kind of hard not to bring up a bright green cast. So, out of my office of roughly 150 people, I told the story about 300 times. I told about ten percent of those who I work with the real story; with the rest, I had to use my imagination as well as a code of etiquette not yet known to me at the time. For instance, if a co-worker around your age who you like asks about it, you go ahead and tell him or her your silly little story- you get shit for it once a week, and when your wittle bitty hand recuperates it is just a prickly reminder of why you shouldn’t have any friends. But, what if a PA in her mid 40s wants to know? I went to the well often with the “uh, I was rough-housing with some friends” which went over well with many who weren’t really interested to begin with. But then you get people in the similar age group who still yearn for those days of being young, getting in fights, doing drugs, and having the world in front of you. While neither of these types are problems individually, when word starts going around about the injury, you will get caught in a lie- there is simply no avoiding it. This completely ignores the fact that the injury itself still sucks, and the story in which the injury occurred is still embarrassing to talk about. With a broken foot, one could pick an injury of an almost infinite “excuse pool,” keep a pant leg over the cast, and play it down. Not the case with a broken hand.
Having a broken hand also sucks because of one’s inability to do the things we take for granted. Next time you are about to turn on your car, do it all with your left hand. Blows, huh? This sheer awkwardness applies to brushing your teeth, smoking a cigarette, writing a note, typing, *a**i** off, and pretty much any other daily activity you would do automatically with your right hand. The one plus of a broken hand: people will not try to face your wrath because having a cast on your hand is like having a lightweight brick- this wasn’t too bad, due to the generous timing of the Incredible Hulk’s release, and it’s a much more complementary to be nicknamed after Bruce Banner’s alter ego than Shrek. Winner: Broken Hand8
1 A seven-page article about Celtics versus Lakers comes to mind. Pretty glad this did not come to fruition, as judging by the millions of strongly opinionated, masturbamental (that’s a word that is a cross between ‘mastubatory’ and ‘sentimental’) articles that loomed as a result of the continuation of a fine rivalry, my short experience playing NBA on Nintendo seemed irrelevant.
2 Go to my second article is you want the whole story- pretty tired of retelling it
3 An injury all of my friends thought was hilarious because the closest I’ve ever come to a boxing injury is when I was trying to do a nitrous pinger near the conclusion of Rocky IV
4 Amount of ass received due to my broken hand= 0
5 Answer: taste- that way you can win wheelbarrows full of money by betting friends you won’t eat various excrement(s), fluids, etc.
6 And my friends wonder how I get so much pussy…
7 A pointer- when you break a bone in your body doing something stupid, you might as well do the cool thing and make up a ludicrously awesome story about how you did it. “Drunk with friend” does not cut it. My personal favorite was after I had had the cast on for eight weeks and starting telling people that I had broken every bone in a child molester’s body, but felt bad so I decided to break to my own hand, as a form of penance.
8 Shit, having a broken foot is almost complementary to my life
