I’ve had a few serious injuries, really, very few. I can name them on one hand: busted lip when I was 3, falling out of a sumac tree on my back, and the injury I am going to share with you today.
I really can’t recall any other injury. I don’t even remember splitting my lip open. I do remember falling out of the tree, it literally knocked the wind out of me for a good 30 minutes to the point where it was difficult to speak. But still, no biggie. I’ve never broken a bone, not even a sprain. I did get bit by a gerbil once, I’m pretty sure. Burned myself here and there. Got the biggest bruise of my life, literally the size of my hand, on my thigh after my first shot at skiing, caused by repeatedly falling on one side.
But my worst injury, or rather, my least favorite, was in the summer before 6th grade. Or 5th grade. One of the two, it’s all the same now.
At home, we were digging a very deep and wide hole. It was deep enough that I couldn’t easily get out on my own I believe. Why were we digging such a pit? No bodies, no. I believe it was for compost, I seriously can’t remember now. You can be ashamed of me parents, but my memory is apparently fading as I age.
Anyway, my brother and mom and I were in the hole digging and moving things around. I wanted to get out and go do something else, but I wasn’t allowed. So I continued working. Probably whined a bit too.
We had to work around a small pipe that traveled through our hole, a foot or so off of the ground. The pipe was part of our garden watering system. Shortly after I asked if I could leave, I decided to jump over said pipe instead of carefully stepping over it.
That, my friends, is the sound of a young girl jumping on a rusty nail. Now you know.
Yup, went right through my shoe and into the middle of my foot like it was puncturing a marshmallow. A nail stuck in a board buried down in that hole for who knows how long. In my foot.
Crying ensued. Someone took my bloody shoe off and the nail came out with it. Carried me to the house. Never wore those shoes again, of course. Pity, because I really liked them at the time. They were all white, and looked a lot like the ones below. Serves me right for wearing shoes I like (and are white) in a dirty pit.
Anyway, so I ended up with a nice hole in my foot. The parents consulted that huge medical book of their’s from the shelf that said to soak the foot in a bucket with epsom salts. I think I did that for weeks, or it felt like weeks. No, I’m pretty sure it was at least twice a day for two weeks. Or one or three. Or four. I’ll stop.
Now I have a nice round scar on the bottom of my foot, about the size of a pea.
Moral of the story: Get a tetanus shot. Every 10 years. And don’t jump around in pits. Unless they’re full of colorful plastic balls.