A funny thing happened this past weekend, while I was on the way back from the L.A. Times Festival of books at the University of Southern California, which is just south of Downtown L.A. and two simple Metro train hops from the station closest to home. The change of trains happens at a very busy station called the 7th Street Metro. This is where three lines meet up — the Red Line which runs from North Hollywood to Union Station, the Expo Line which runs from Downtown L.A. to Downtown Santa Monica, and the Blue Line, which runs from Downtown L.A. to Downtown Long Beach.
If you know the area at all, it’s quite an impressive junction because it makes it possible to get from one neighborhood to another that, once upon a time, used to be a very onerous drive by car. Angelenos in the Valley are notoriously reticent about making the trip to the Westside, of which Santa Monica is the heart, and vice versa.
But all of that is neither here nor there. Well… it’s not here, but it is there, and it was there, at the very busy 7th Street Metro last Saturday that, while I was changing trains, I took an unexpected trip, namely over some stranger’s foot, and wound up crashing hard onto the platform. I was holding my swag bag of books and other goodies in my left hand, so I wound up landing on my left knee and right wrist. My knee hit the platform proper, some sort of marble or faux version thereof. My right hand slammed down on a metal plate in that platform, and did so with such a loud bang that it scared the shit out of everyone around me.
Seriously, I think for a second they thought it was a gunshot. But it did get a sudden sympathetic wave of onlookers asking me if I was all right and, in that moment, I thought I was. Nothing really hurt badly, I was back on my feet in a second, and the person I had tripped over actually stopped as well until I assured him that I was uninjured.
I went along my way, but later that evening my wrist was feeling a bit wonky. Since I’m paying a princely sum for my own health insurance now, I figured, “What the hell. Let’s get my money’s worth and go to urgent care just so they can tell me that nothing is wrong.”
That’s not what they told me.
In fact, it turns out I have an avulsion fracture to the scaphoid bone. What this means is that somehow the ligament in my wrist popped a little chip of bone off and put it somewhere it shouldn’t be. The scaphoid bone is one of eight stuck in between the twin arm bones, radius and ulna, and the bones of the hand itself. If you hold your hands out palm down in front of you, it’s located on the inside of your wrists. And, incidentally, mine in the X-ray looks nothing like the version in the anatomy books, which is interesting in itself.
The orthopedic surgeon who bound my hand and forearm up like King Tut assured me that if one were going to break that particular bone this was the best possible way to do it. It turns out that the arteries that lead to the hand and provide all the blood to the fingers do a really complicated twisty thing around this particular bone, and it’s very easy to mess that up in a more severe fracture.
So… yay! I guess.
Here’s a bit of perspective. I have somehow managed to make it through life with only two broken bones. This is the second, and both breaks were ridiculously minor. The first happened when I was 21 and slammed the middle finger of my left hand in a window, making a hairline fracture across the bone in the tip. However, hands are really annoying things to have broken bones in because, well, they’re pretty useful. At the moment, and probably for the next month and a half, I am essentially without a right thumb. All the other fingers on that hand work, but it is amazing how tricky things can be when you lack that essential primate digit and your dominant hand is also the majority hand.
For example, I can’t use scissors right now at all, and a manual can opener is quite the challenge, although I’ve gotten good at being able to operate it with my index and middle finger. This serves to keep my dog happy, because it’s necessary for her to eat. Since I can’t get the wrapping on my arm wet as if it’s some sort of Gremlin, doing things like washing dishes or showering are a special challenge — I have to basically do the former one-handed and the latter with several plastic bags and rubber bands. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to shampoo one-handed or shave with your non-dominant hand.
Certain other activities with my left hand have been… oh, let’s just say… tricky. I’ll leave the details to your imagination, but every man reading this probably just got it.
Although they told me I shouldn’t drive (this is L.A., screw that!) I’ve managed to also figure out how to work ignition keys with those same two can opener fingers, and since I drive stick, I’m basically shifting with my pinky.
What’s also interesting is that I actually appreciate it when people look at my arm and ask, “Hey, what happened?” And that’s kind of a lesson for me when I see other people in similar situations. Or maybe it’s just me, but… go ahead and ask and don’t feel rude, because it gives us a really interesting story to tell. Okay, maybe don’t ask someone with missing limbs or in a wheelchair, but if the damage looks temporary like this, fire away, please.
For me, the most interesting part is figuring out how to work around it and not let this little oopsie slow me down at all. I’ve already done one improv show with my arm like this because, well, the show must go on, right? I also managed to successfully cook up a ton of chicken fried rice, mostly using my left hand — and if you’ve ever done that one, you know what a challenge it is, because it involves cooking a few different things before combining them all together for the finale — rice the day before, then chicken, then veggies, then egg, then everything together.
So the point is this. Although I don’t like the idea of having a wee bit of a handicap temporarily, it reminds me how resilient our species can be. Sure, it’s a gigantic, inconvenient pain in the ass to have my dominant hand partially immobilized like this, but it leads me to figure out new ways to do things, and it’s certainly pushing me toward being a bit ambidextrous, and it’s always a good thing when you can figure out how to do it both ways, pun fully intended.
What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. This fall didn’t kill me, and I have a feeling I’m actually going to be better for it once I’m done with two weeks of splint and four weeks of cast. That’s called always finding the silver lining.