I fell off a box and broke my elbow

Here’s a list of things I’ve discovered are particularly difficult to do with one hand:

• Use a pepper grinder.
• Get shampoo out of a shampoo bottle and onto my hair.
• Tie my shoelaces.
• Take a frozen pizza out of the oven.
• Use a laptop to write a blog post. Like I am right now.

I know this because, a week ago today, I fell off a box, and broke my elbow.

Here’s a blurry capture from a video taken a few minutes before it happened:

That’s me, flying through the air, jumping up onto a 20 inch high wooden box. 

I was in the gym for my regular 5 p.m. Thursday workout. We’d completed the warm-up, and the strength section, and had moved onto the “workout of the day,” described like this:

4 SETS FOR TIME
20 Box Jump Overs (20)
20 Push Press (75/55)

-Rest 1:30 b/t Sets-

(Score is Slowest Set)

To translate that into human language: the workout consisted of jumping up from the ground to a 20 inch wooden box, and stepping over the other side, 20 times, followed by lifting a barbell into the air, overhead, 20 times. Then repeating, for a total of four sets.

With the value of hindsight, I see that the possibility of an injury was heightened that afternoon: it was about 30°C out, and not much cooler in the gym. I was two weeks into an adjustment to new eyeglasses lenses. I was wearing a set of slightly-more-cushioned running shoes, that I hadn’t done box jumps in before. It was the end of a hot, busy, hectic day.

I had completed two rounds already, and had just started the third. After 55 box jumps, on number 56, my toe caught the edge of the box, and I went over hard, onto my right side. 

I don’t remember a lot of the details, but it’s not something I’d ever wish to repeat: it had elements of “falling out of an airplane” nightmares, mixed with what I imagine it to be like to get hit hard in the boxing ring.

I landed on my right arm. 

It wasn’t immediately obvious that I’d broken anything: nothing was sticking out, there was no bruising, no blood. I thought I might have gotten away with just a sprain. I was well supported by my coach, who gave me space to get my bearings, and then led me through the possibilities. She ended up driving me home, in my car, because I was pretty sure it wasn’t safe to drive, and, indeed, I don’t think I could’ve managed it anyway (driving is another thing it’s particularly hard to do with one arm).

Once I got home, I put some ice on my arm, and set out to get supper for my mother and I (I was living with her for the week, while my brother and sister-in-law were on vacation). Fortunately, the day before, I had prepared enough salad for two meals. 

Here’s a photo I took of my arm, after we’d finished eating:

As you can see, it doesn’t look particularly injured. Although, by this time, it was feeling particularly injured.

My sister-in-law, Karen, bless her heart, offered to jump out of her vacation, and drive me to the emergency room. Before I left, my mother helpfully tied my shoes (this was the first time my mother had needed to tie my shoes in more than 55 years).

The timestamp on my ER registration form shows 8:52 p.m. At the time, the estimated wait time for a non-life-threatening injury was 10 hours or more. I reconciled myself to settling in for a long night. 

After a short, wait, I was ushered into the triage room, my vitals taken, a description of what happened noted, and I was sent, immediately, for an x-ray.

The x-ray technician, while capable, seemed initially to pay little heed to the notion that my arm couldn’t move in the usual ways that arms move. Ultimately, adaptations were sought; the ER has its own x-ray suite, and it seems to have a Meccano-like flexibility.

After the x-ray, I was sent back to the waiting room, but then almost immediately called back into the triage room for a shot of Toradol, and the offer of a sling, which I accepted gratefully.

Here’s me at 9:30 p.m., slinged up, and wearing a mask (because Karen, wisely, noted that there were a lot of coughing people in the waiting room).

A few minutes later, I decided it was time to read Lisa in on the situation – she was away visiting friends in Montreal. Here’s what I texted:

I’m in the ER. I’m ok, just settled in for a long wait.

In my workout today we were doing box jumps, and around about #50, my foot caught the edge and I went down on my right side, hard.

It wasn’t clear whether I’d broken anything or just sprained. C. drove me home in my car. I put ice on my arm. Over the next hour it became clear that injury is centred on my elbow. I can’t fully extend my arm and I can’t rotate my arm to point my thumb up. Pain when sitting still is 2-3/10; pain if I move the wrong way is 7/10.

I’ve had a X-ray and the wait time is showing > 10 hours. The X-ray tech couldn’t tell me anything but I got called back to triage for pain injection and the nurse said “yeah, it’s something” and when I asked “so, if I give up go home in an hour is that a bad thing” he said “don’t go home in an hour—you’ll be back.” So it’s clearly something.

She texted me back, among other things:

At that moment, that was exactly what I needed. I felt (a little) better.

With my phone dying, and no electrical outlets obvious in the ER waiting room, I settled in for 10 hours of quiet meditation.

At some point, the triage team came out to do a roll call of patients: five or six didn’t respond when called; I assumed they’d given up and gone home. The 10+ hour weight on the status board didn’t change, though.

By some miracle, after waiting only a couple of hours, I was called into see a doctor. He told me I’d had a radial head fracture, and explained a little bit about the bones in the arm, and what had happened. 

Because the fracture wasn’t displaced – the parts of the bone were still aligned – I didn’t need a cast, or surgery, and the only treatment was to keep the arm immobilized, and let it heal.

He told me that I would be automatically contacted for an appointment with the fracture clinic, and that they would follow up with what comes next.

By 11:59 p.m., I was waiting in the parking lot for, bless her heart even more, Karen to come and pick me up and take me home:

That first night was a difficult one for sleeping: I managed to find a somewhat sustainable position on the couch, with my arm in the sling. I was still in a fair amount of pain, and I think this was made more noticeable as the shock was wearing off. In the end, I got three or four hours of sleep.

Midday on Friday, I got a text about my appointment at the fracture clinic: it’s set for tomorrow, just before lunch.

Lisa returned home late that night, and has proved a great source of emotional and practical support. The love of a strong and capable partner can work wonders, I know now more than ever.

My pain has gradually subsided to the point where, when my arm is in the sling, or resting beside me, I don’t feel pain at all. I still can’t rotate my wrist, and any attempt to do so brings immediate feedback. I’m not even trying.

While, there are, as I wrote to begin, a whole bunch of things I’m discovering are a lot harder, or impossible, with just one arm, one hand, it turns out that there’s a lot that I can do. Being in good shape means that it’s pretty easy to squat down and pick things up, for example. My core is in pretty good form, so I can get myself up out of bed without two arms.

Things like getting dressed and undressed, having a shower, really anything that requires previously-simple gymnastics, have become an exercise in careful patience. 

It’s not the pain, or even the discomfort of the sling, that’s the biggest impact of the injury: it’s the hyper-awareness required to walk through every day life, always mindful that  a bump or a reach could make things a lot worse. 

My friend Dave, no stranger to the broken elbow, sent me some really helpful advice, which has stood me in good stead so far:

Also, do the physio. You’re already in the habit of working out, which is good. But every minute of physio pays off, because your elbow won’t be the same for a long time, unfortunately. Accept the help. Do the physio.

OH! Also! Because we both grew up in the broken bone=cast era, I found I took my break much less seriously because I didn’t have a cast. Take it seriously. It ain’t a sprain. A fracture is a break. You have a broken bone, and you need to treat it like one.

I’m doing exactly that. Trying really hard.

Lisa arrived back from Montreal with reports of all manner of interesting conversations with old friends. One advised that, confronted with some discouraging new circumstance, like, say, breaking your elbow, you can be angry, pissed off, resentful, and mope around, or you can see it as a gift, a set of new experiences, a way of building empathy with others, a kind of adventure. 

I still have my angry, pissed off, resentful, mopey times, but it’s also a kind of adventure. Not the one I would’ve chosen for this summer, but an adventure nonetheless.

I’m grateful to the volunteer in the ER who got me a pillow, to the triage nurse who was kind and compassionate, to Dr. Twiddy for answering all my questions, and sending me on my way. 

I’m grateful that I live in a country where I didn’t have to think at all about money before heading to the emergency room, because of public healthcare.

I’m grateful to my sister-in-law, Karen, for love and support and logistics, to my brother Mike, for love and support and logistics, to my mother for love and support and tying my shoes when I needed it.

I’m grateful to Lisa’s mother for dropping off a chicken, and to Lisa’s father for dropping off a book.

I’m grateful to Lisa for all the extra driving and shopping and bed-making and cat-feeding and schedule-arranging and washing machine fixing, for the care she takes to not bump my arm in bed, and for simply, lovingly, steadfastly, being here.