Dog Walking and Other Dangerous Sports

It is a well-known fact that I am a klutz. Added to my determination to exercise, it’s become a dangerous lifestyle. Recently, I took Mugsy (all thirteen pounds of him) for a late-night walk along with two friends and their dogs. It was dark; Mugsy pulled, I didn’t see the curb, tripped, fell onto the sidewalk, and hit another curb with full force onto my right wrist.

With a high pain tolerance and hope it was just a sprain, I filled zip lock bags with ice, took Advil, and tried to sleep. It was futile. In the morning, Daniel took me to the ER. I have hairline fractures in both my radial and ulna and am sporting a cast for six weeks (two and a half more to go and counting).

I am grateful for the new style of casts. My cast is waterproof and can be tightened or loosened, although it is still uncomfortable. At least with its flexibility, I won’t need to stick a hanger down it to scratch an itch, like I did when I broke my arm at twelve years old.

I’m not sure if it’s good or bad, but I am not unfamiliar with injuries. I’ve had two eye injuries from tennis. One that required being glued (better than stitches) above my eyebrow and one that nearly cost me my retina.

I’ve cracked ribs on dirt bikes, broken my arm roller skating, and suffered various cuts, burns, and bruises working in a restaurant kitchen. And it was just three months ago I had to get four stitches on my right ring finger.

Five years ago, as I was crossing the street on a morning run, I realized a woman driving a large Tahoe hadn’t seen me. I immediately turned and headed back to the sidewalk, but she hit me on my right hip and sent me flying across the street. The doctor was amazed; nothing was broken, but my right butt cheek swelled to about three times its normal size, and I was black and blue from my waist down to my toes for weeks.

With every injury, I have learned to adapt. Even with my arm in a cast, I can run, do Zumba, or go for a bike ride.

Gardening with my cast, however, has been a challenge. Digging through massive leafy tomato and cucumber plants to pick a few tiny yellow pear tomatoes or well-hidden cucumbers is an adventure and a balancing challenge.

It’s an effort to avoid falling into the plants and onto my broken wrist. Adding to the challenge, Mugsy is under my feet, searching for ripe tomatoes. He has been scrounging everywhere for snacks after being put on a diet by his vet. The frustrating part is that he eats only the ripened tomatoes in a race to get to them before we do. As of this morning, it’s Mugsy ten and us four.

With all my recent injury challenges, I take comfort in knowing I am not alone. At the last brunch we hosted in our backyard, it was heartening, if not somewhat pathetic, to see the aging process taking over a few friends. Luckily, we can all still laugh, drink wine, and party! We are the good-natured, fun-loving Waitsburg Wounded.