InsaneJournal

A Chainsaw to the Past

            It was the third time I had been out on the swing that Sunday, and each time had lasted around half an hour. I was addicted, ever since I first sat in a baby swing, ever since I would play games of make-believe (such as being the captain of a ship, a princess on a horse, a caveman—not cavewoman—on a dinosaur), and especially since I had started using it as a method of coping with stress or anxiety. It was six o'clock and I was in my "happy place". Swinging was the best thing in the world, or close to it. It was my dirty little secret, to be approaching my senior year of high school and still participate in the greatest pastime of my youth—and on the swing set of my youth as well. I can't describe such peace as I felt in that moment. For as long as I could remember, I had been safe in the arms of this large, wooden structure. Swings had come and gone, but I, wrongly, thought this swing set would last forever.

The first thing I noticed was that my glasses were missing from my face, and then I realized, upon moving my right arm, or attempting to, that I had been betrayed by my playground lover. Sixteen years' time was not enough to spare me from the wrath of the old, metal S-hook that broke in two while I was in the air. I trusted it for almost my entire life—through the rain, through the snow, through a move to a new house! And it had dropped me.

We had added boards to it for support. We had replaced swing after swing when the chains broke. We had used different styles of swings, from baby swings to a glider. We had even moved it with us when we changed houses. But the one thing we had neglected to do was change the metal hooks. And that was exactly the one thing that allowed it to become a traitor to our household and a murderer of my pride.

My arm was a vertically-laid checkmark, a ghastly, unreal image. The bone was no longer whole. Immediately reminded of a scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets where the bones in Harry Potter's arm are removed in a magical accident, leaving behind a rubbery tube of flesh with a hand (sort of) on the end, my first thought was "Wow, cool!" Even at sixteen, I still loved playing make-believe. The backyard couldn't take that from me.

The fact that this was awful, not awesome, eventually sunk in; I was in shock as I stood, and therefore felt no pain. Ignoring the startled looks of the girls in the yard behind our fence, I let my small dog into the house as tears fell down my bare face. My voice was surprisingly stable as I spoke to my mother in the next room. "Mom. I need to go to the hospital. I let Lily in. My glasses are out by the swing set."

            She continued to read her book. I wasn't even sure she'd heard me, or that she was out there; my next thought was only that I needed to relieve myself. I sat down on the toilet, the majority of my right arm flopping down uselessly again. My mother stood framed in the doorway all of a sudden, and for once I did not mind this invasion of my privacy as she helped me pull the Spider-Man boxers I was using as pajama shorts back up. I realized that it was not the ideal outfit to show up anywhere in, but I was quite certain that wasn't on anyone's mind but my own. I was barefoot, too.

"Oh my God. You really do have to go to the emergency room!" she had exclaimed just before I stood up.

I merely replied with, "Yeah."

I soon found myself sitting in the car, after my mom helped me buckle my seatbelt, and it was on the way to the hospital that my arm finally started to hurt. I was crying again, like I had when I'd first fallen. When we pulled up, someone used a magazine from a waiting room as a makeshift splint. Thinking back, I don't think I'll ever wish they didn't have so many boring magazines again—at least they're all useful. It still hurt, though, when the lady did that, right after I stepped out of the car. I don't remember walking anywhere or laying down, but I do remember them setting the bone, the edges scraping together. I squeezed my parents' hands when possible, braying like an animal, which amused me in an odd, detached way. And they gave me morphine . . . and more morphine . . . and more morphine: Unfortunately.

Six times the normal dose of morphine later and we were done. My parents looked very rattled. They were already signing forms that had to do with surgery. My throat was killing me—killing me—but I wasn't allowed to have anything to drink in case they had to put me under. I was very, very frustrated. That was the worst part, the lack of water. I really wanted some. I'd been crying my eyes out, screaming in pain, for the last, what, two hours? No chance of dehydration, though, what with the IV I'd had. I don't like shots, but IVs are even worse. Yuck.

The thing running through my mind, besides 'Water, oh God, please, water...,' was that I'd never had surgery before. I was really scared, but the fear I felt was under a thick layer of morphine. The morphine kind of made me feel like I was Superman, like I could get through anything. But that feeling wasn't great enough to stamp out my fear.

So in came Dr. Wilcox. And, guess what? It wasn't a case of surgery after all. All I would have to have is what they call a hanging cast. I would have to sleep sitting up, but gravity would be doing all the work. The break was an amazingly clean one, with no fragmentation at all. I was lucky. Dr. Wilcox put the cast on my arm, as I secretly mourned the shirt he was getting plaster all over, and then we left.

At around nine o'clock, the first round of puking came. I couldn't even hold down a damn saltine cracker. Do you know how lame that is? And my eyes, I couldn't keep them open enough to watch TV. I had Mom read to me from David McCullough's biography on John Adams—at least that was interesting. But my hearing drifted in and out, and I just kept puking. I'm pretty sure that, save for the retching, it was the most boring night of my life to date. And it was a night of not knowing anything, trying one thing, failing, trying another. I hate trial and error, especially when it seems like there isn't any actual solution. And, that night, it surely seemed that way.

It might have been easier if I'd been allowed to lie down, but I couldn't with the hanging cast getting in the way. I had to keep adjusting my arm, too, the cracking sounds making both of my parents sick until they told me to sit down and stop. The night was slow, sick torture. The forced sitting really didn't help my sore back from the day. Finally, though, at four in the morning, the vomiting stopped. My eyes started working properly again. I watched "Napoleon Dynamite". It had never been so good before, never, and I love that movie.

Gifts from people in the next couple days made me feel restless, even as I was grateful. I actually felt guilty for not being in constant pain! And using one arm was beginning to annoy me to no end. But I came up with tricks, like holding a plate you just pulled from the microwave and then shutting the door to it with your chin, and other such small but useful things I picked up. I learned how to eat a waffle with only a knife. I made abstract art with a paintbrush in my left hand, and dedicated it to my right arm. I typed one-handed. I wrote gibberish that only I could decipher. I was Superman after all.

My arm still twinges some, as injuries are wont to do, to remind us they're not ever going to leave us entirely (no, that would be much too kind of them), but it's not often that it does so. Mr. Zimmerman from church brought over his chainsaw and massacred the age-old swing set. I didn't watch him do it. I just didn't care that much anymore.

To this day, I still sit out on the back porch, on a square slab of concrete, looking at the yard. It's completely empty except for a tree struggling to survive to the right, a tetherball pole to the left with a faded, old ball on a broken string, and the spot of dead grass upon which a swing set used to sit.