For some reason I was just thinking about the time I sprained my ankle.
I know, totally mundane. I was lucky enough to live a largely injury-free childhood apart from the usual skinned knees and elbows, so this event was pretty significant to me. I’m not sure how old I was, but I’m thinking probably fourth or fifth grade. We were called in from recess and I was running to get in line, and wham! Got up, hopped to the line, realized my foot wasn’t working, got sent to the nurse’s office.
I remember that a man was in the nurse’s office chatting with her – not a teacher, who I would have recognized, so maybe a janitor or something? The nurse moved my foot around, and it hurt like hell, and I made little “ow” sounds, and the guy mocked me. Um, thanks a lot, why are you even in here? (Remember how kids didn’t have rights? It wasn’t any use to complain, no matter how much injustice you felt.)
Anyway, the nurse thought nothing was broken and wrapped it up, and I remember for a few days I couldn’t put any weight on it. My big brother carried me between the school bus and house, and my teacher assigned a couple of other kids to help me – I had to lean on someone while hopping to, you know, music class or whatever, and a couple of helpers and I got to leave for lunch a couple of minutes early because I was slow. I remember waking up every morning trying to flex it a little, or tentatively putting my foot to the floor to see if it could bear any weight yet.
In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder why my parents didn’t take me to the doctor or something. Crutches would have made my life SO much easier for those days. Jesus Christ, people. I’m hopping around on one foot for the greater part of a week! A little help here? Thanks for nothin’!
Which is the general feeling I have when I think about being a kid, really – thanks for nothin’, you know?
Seriously. You gotta laugh.