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George E Thompson

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By George E Thompson
Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Rated "G" by the Author.

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It hurt so bad I couldn't think straight.

  I was in the fifth grade in Kansas City, Kansas because Dad was attending seminary.  We lived on campus in a building that housed four apartments.  There were four of these buildings that made a large square around the playground in the center.  Our playground consisted of teeter totters, swings, a slide and clothes line that was anchored to the ground by what we called "guy wires."
   Since I was fat and the brunt of many jokes, some of the other boys decided to chase me around the playground as they attempted to hit me with rubberbands.  At one point I was looking back at them and not watching where I was going.  I tripped over a guy wire and hit the ground with a big thud.  It wasn't until I stood up and dusted myself off that my left wrist was hurting.  I could not even turn my hand over to look at the underside of my wrist.  All I could feel was a big knot.
   I went home, still crying as I entered the living room and told my parents what had happened.  Mom played doctor and asked me to wiggle my fingers; I had no problem with that.  She tried to turn my hand over and the pain was so great that I pulled away from her.  Mom said she had always heard your hand is not broken if you can move your fingers.  I guess I fit in that category because "Mom knows best."  She took me in the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink and pulled a container out of the cabinet and started adding a white powder to the hot water.  It was epson salt and she said this salt and hot water would stop any swelling and the pain would subside.
  When it was time for dinner, I wasn't very hungry and went to bed, my hand having a limp wrist look to it.  However, I could still feel the other side of my wrist and was scared of the big bump that was there.  That was a Saturday night and Dad was working on his sermon for Sunday.  I fell into a light sleep and woke up each time I turned over in bed.
  When morning came, Mom looked at my hand and told Dad I was not going to church and that she was worried that something might really be wrong with my hand.  The man and woman who lived above us had always been nice when we would pass each other on the sidewalk or in the hallway of our building.  The lady was a nurse and Mom asked for her advice.  She took one look at my hand and a smile spread across her face.  She told both of in a matter-of-fact tone that my wrist was broken and I needed to see a doctor right away.  She made some telephone calls for us and sent us to the nearest hospital.
  I assume all the doctors were busy with other patients or had not started their shift.  And I was in a lot of pain.  A doctor finally arrived, looked at the top of my wrist and then immediately turned my hand over and pressed on the knot that I had been nursing all night.  Yes, my wrist was broken and he asked a nurse to give me a shot for pain.
  I have no idea what was in the shot, but the pain went away and I could have cared less what anyone did to me.  I was hauled off for surgery and I did not come back to reality until I was in the recovery room coughing and gagging.  They were giving me oxygen and told me that they had used too much ether on me during my time on the table in surgery.
  But I made it through all that and you know what?  I'm STILL a preacher's kid.

(c) 2007 George E Thompson

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Reviewed by Salome Rowe 9/3/2007
Having had a bone graft on my left navicular wrist bone after nursing it in everyway that I could for nine years because the doctors kept saying, "Oh, that hairline fracture will heal itself," I can so identify. Still more than that, I love that the child in the story grew from the experience, survived the emotional scars and the physical pain, and seemed to have what I call that "smiling spirit" anyway. Really good read.
Reviewed by m j hollingshead 6/19/2007
poignant read

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