So yesterday evening, immediately after work and right before a full night of running and our weekly weigh-in for the YMCA weight loss challenge, I broke my elbow. I shifted my weight wrong while skating a mini-ramp at a local skate shop and fell headlong onto my outstretched hand. My elbow popped, and several (dozen) muttered expletives later, I was sitting in the E.R. waiting room shaking my head.
This kind of thing happens to sixteen-year-olds, not twenty-three-year-olds, and I couldn’t help but feel like an idiot explaining myself to the E.R doctor last night and my orthopedist this morning. Luckily, I didn’t fracture the joint. The docs said with enough rest and rehab I should be healthy again in four to six weeks. That’s assuming I don’t do something stupid that re-aggravates the break. As self-deprecating as it is, I’m crossing my fingers.
So now I sit, fully medicated and sling-armed, trying to type without wincing in pain. I shouldn’t complain; I’ve got great medical coverage, an understanding workplace, and I’m not in Haiti. Things could be exponentially worse.
