Screws in My Hand

I was a senior at Elmira High School when I broke several bones in my hand. It all happened after the final bell rang one February day in 2013. I rode the number 13 bus home. I was elated to retrieve my skateboard and go to the Veneta Skate Park until dusk.

When I opened the front door and entered Mom's manufactured home where we lived, I saw her on her recliner, watching Days of Our Lives like she did most days when I came home from school. I loathed soap operas, but she devoured them like she did with her Shasta Cola.

"How was school?" said Mom, her legally blind eyes squinted toward the TV, her voice just a little louder than the TV.

"School was fine."

"Got any homework?"

"I finished that in study hall."

"You better be telling the truth."

"I am." I was telling the truth.

"Are you going to the skate park?"

"If that's okay with you."

"That's fine. If you're not back by dinner time, I'll put your food in the microwave."

"I'll be there until dark. I need the practice. I want to get better."

"I know. Have fun, then. And say hello to your grandma on your way there."

"I will. Thanks Mom."

"Yep," she said. She never looked at me once; her eyes were locked onto her soap opera.

My skateboard leaned against the wall next to the front door, so I picked it up, and I closed the front door behind me. Instead of walking down the stairs like a normal person, I jumped from the top step—the fourth step—and landed on my skateboard at the bottom. I caught speed around the front of our home where my bedroom was nudged against the road that went east and west along a long row of other manufactured homes. I skated past these homes at a liberating speed; the rush of wind and the invigorating bite of winter air chewed at my cheeks.

Eight homes west from ours was my Grandma Laura Bonnie's home. She lived in a double-wide with two others. My mom and I lived in a single wide. I jumped up the three steps of her porch and landed at the top with my skateboard in my hand. I landed with a loud thud. I opened the door and saw Great Uncle Leon Barley in his recliner, Uncle Robert Gray on the couch next to him across the walkway, and I saw Grandma Laura Bonnie in her recliner across from them—making one obtuse triangle in the middle of their living room.

"You 'bout scared me half to death," said Grandma Laura, holding a one dollar scratch it in one hand and a penny in the other. Next to her was a pile of word search magazines.

"Yeah, why do you have to jump up the stairs like that?" asked Uncle Robert.

"I tell ya what, dat der innert wood be ya broke like da end of the world, tell ya what," said Great Uncle Leon. I could barely ever tell what he said because he was a survivor of alcohol poisoning. His body (besides his arms) was lame, and ninety percent of the time he had an entire half can of Copenhagen in his mouth.

"It's a good warm up for the skate park," I said. "Gets me limber."

"Limmer, I tell ya what... dat be zer inniot be idol migol berzot, I tell ye what."

"Mom wanted me to stop by and say hello."

"Hello," said Robert. He looked down at his two-dollar crossword scratch off pressed against a Fingerhut magazine and began scratching it off with a dime. He belched.

"Well, hello there," said Grandma, her cheeks bright and peachy. "Pleased to see you again. Be safe at the skate park then, and don't hurt yourself."

"I'll do my best," I said. "I can't make any promises."

Leon didn't say anything else, nor did Robert.

"See ya," I said. I closed the door behind me, but instead of jumping down the stairs and landing on my skateboard, I walked down them because the driveway at the bottom of the stairs was bumpy and cracked in several spots. It was covered with many small rocks that would get caught in my board's wheels and cause me to fall off.

Once I made it to the road, I jumped on my skateboard and skated to the end of the mobile home park. When I made it to the main road called Territorial, I took a right and skated the sidewalk, hearing the wheels hit each crack: cuh-cuh, cuh-cuh, cuh-cuh. I reached into my pocked and brought out my iPod Touch. I put my Skullcandy headphones into my ears and cranked Lil Wayne to the max.

I arrived at the skatepark in no more than ten minutes, skating past the Fern Ridge Public Library, the fire department, and the Jehovah Witness Church. At the back of the Veneta Skate Park, I saw my friends Don, Skipples, Icky, Roy, and Pip—short for Pipsqueak. Don stood next to his long-time friend Icky, while Roy stood on the Volcano (a ramp at the highest point of the skate park—known for its volcano shape). He looked as if ready to drop into the ramp and carve the Snake—snake shaped ramp—around the Twinkie (another name the locals called the centerpiece of the park—known for its Twinkie shape, although Twinkies are not shaped like that ramp). Skipples practiced flat ground nollie tricks near the Volcano. Pip practiced stall tricks along the steepest side of the Twinkie. I took out my headphones and paused the song Fireman on my iPod because I knew people would talk to me.

When I rolled into the park, standing in my natural goofy-footed position on my skateboard in my black and white Adidas, Don was the first person to notice me and said, "Yo, Sam! How's it going brotha?"

"Good bro, 'bout to skate it up."

Roy saw me and decided to roll off the Volcano, carving around the Snake and into the bowl. I watched as he ollied the right hip of the Twinkie and did a rock-to-fakie on the Punk Wall. He liked to energize the skate park with his tricks, and I was feeling it; I wanted to do my own line and create my own skate park party on wheels.

Pip saw me, kicked up his board, caught it, and said to me, "Hey Sammy."

"Pipsqueak."

"Don't call me that, dude."

"Then don't call me Sammy; that's my kid-name."

"'ight man, 'ight."

Skipples saw me and said, "Long time no see, homie."

"You've been gone for a while. What's up?"

"Probation and had to help my dad with some things."

"Better stay out of trouble. I'd like to see you around here more often."

"Easier said than done, my friend."

I skated over to Don and his friend Icky. I gave Don a fist bump. I gave Icky a fist bump. Don and Icky were both older than me by many years. Don wore a baseball cap, a t-shirt representing the Lakers, Etnies shoes, and a pair of baggy jeans (I always wondered: how can someone skate in baggy jeans?). Icky wore a Raiders shirt, no hat, no skateboard, and DC shoes.

Don said, "Sam, would you like to skate dubs on the face of the Twinkie?"

"Let's do it; I'm down."

Don jumped on his board and skated around the Snake and up the backside of the Twinkie. He manualed the length of the Twinkie and then dropped off the face, turning around the roll-in and did a kickflip to 5-0 first try, but when he leaned into the ramp, he lost his footing and bailed by jumping aside.

I skated around the Snake and rolled up the backside of the Twinkie. Instead of manualing the surface of the Twinkie, I skated to the end, to the face of the Twinkie, and I nollie acid dropped into the ramp. I caught good speed and ascended the roll-in, but instead of rotating, I went fakie down and then up the face of the Twinkie and rotated on the back truck into a blunt stall. I popped the blunt and rolled fakie into the ramp. I did several more tricks on the face of the Twinkie: BS 50-50 stall, BS smith stall, FS smith stall, BS feeble to fakie, and regular blunt to fakie. During those tricks, Don, Roy, Icky, Pipsqueak, and Skipples cheered me on by clapping, whistling, and banging the tail (except Icky didn't have a skateboard) of their skateboards into the cement. Don skated and did some great reverts to 50-50, reverts to 50 to fakie, even a few flip tricks into stalls. He also received cheer, especially from me who slammed the tail of my skateboard onto the surface of the Twinkie.

When we were winded, tired, sweaty, and done, we skated to the back of the skatepark where Icky stood watch, slapping a pack of Marlboro into his palm.

"Want one, Sam?" said Icky, spitting chew on the cement next to his shoes.

"I don't smoke, bro. You know that."

"Wuss. Alright, Don, you want one?"

"Course. Later, Sam. Thanks for skating with me. I'll be back in a few."

Don and Icky walked out of the skate park. And at the same time that they left through the entrance, two incredibly gorgeous women walked into the skate park. They were seniors in high school just like me—students who transferred over last year to Elmira High School. I was single at the time (the girl I was dating in high school had issues and wanted a break), so I thought I had a chance with one of these two girls. They were friends and frequently went to the skate park to watch the live entertainment: skaters falling on the cement, breaking bones, concussions, fist fights, and of course, cops going into the skate park to search everyone's bags and pockets for alcohol and drugs. These girls lavished drama and wanted to be in the center of it. I knew it and all the skater-boys knew it (and many of them didn't care because they were the same way).

Both women wore their hair down to their shoulders; they were blondes, the shorter one was a slightly browner shade of blonde, but still blonde. The taller one had bright golden blonde hair. Both wore blue skinny jeans; the taller girl wore a black Avril Lavigne hoodie and the shorter girl wore a thin Elmira High School t-shirt.

Pip skated to me, stopped with his foot on the ground, popped the tail of his board and caught the nose, and said, "Sam, we should talk to these girls. Seriously."

"Are you sure? Maybe they just want to enjoy the scenery."

"Don't be such a coward. You know why they're here. Let's talk to them."

"Do you even know their names?"

"Of course not. But that's a good conversation starter."

The girls walked up the slightly inclined ramps between the grind-rail and the grind-box and sat on a cement block near the Volcano, resting their backs against a metal fence. I followed Pip as he walked with a slight limp and his skateboard in his right hand.

"Ladies," he said. "My name is Pip. Short for Phillip." I laughed. He glared at me. "What are your names?"

"Okay," said the taller girl, emphasizing the ay sound. "I'm Brandi. This is my friend Sarah."

"Hi," said Sarah, blushing. Her voice was quiet. She looked away toward the parking lot.

"What brings you two here?" asked Pip.

"We wanted to spend time outside. And you," asked Brandi, looking at me, "what is your name?"

"I'm Sam. Short for Samuel."

"Hi, Sam," said Sarah. Her blue eyes locked into mine, and I smiled. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

After a short moment of silence, Pip said, "Either of you two want to get something to drink from Dari-Mart? Maybe both of you? I can get you both a soda."

"Sure—" said Brandi.

"Actually," said Sarah, "I want to go back home real fast and get a sweater. It's cold."

Sarah moved her hands up and down her arms. She had broken out in gooseflesh.

"I told you to bring a sweater," said Brandi, reproachfully.

"Sorry girl." She shrugged, then she lifted the side of her lip.

"You want to follow us back to our house?" said Brandi. Then we can go to Dari-Mart. You can't come into our house. If our parents find out, they'll kill you. No joke."

"I'm real scared," said Pip. He chuckled.

"Shut-up, Pipsqueak." I said. He bit his lip. "Let's be respectful, okay?"

"Yeah Pipsqueak," said Brandi. She looked at me, then she looked at Sarah and exploded into laughter. "What kind of name is that? Seriously—"

"That's not my name. It's Pip. Knock it off, Sammy."

"Sammy isn't as bad as Pipsqueak, dude."

"Whatever."

"Girls," said Sarah, "are you two going to bicker, or are we leaving? I'm cold."

"Let's go," said Pip, storming off, jumping on his skateboard and leaving the park. He stopped in the basketball court, got off his skateboard and stood there waiting for us.

"He has an anger problem. Don't mind him."

I walked with Brandi and Sarah to Pip, who was talking to himself on the basketball court. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but I knew it had to be about me. I didn't care.

The four of us walked through the basketball court, through the parking lot that was next to the playground, then onto Hunter Road where we decided to be rebellious and walk on the street instead of the sidewalk. There weren't any vehicles at the moment, and if there were any, we'd step onto the sidewalk for only the amount of time for a vehicle to pass.

"Kickflip," said Pip. "Hurry do a kickflip."

Pip jumped on his skateboard and rolled on the paved road. He tried to do a kickflip, but instead, he over-flipped his board and stumbled around.

"Fail," I said. "Check it." I jumped on my skateboard and spun a 360 flip. I landed the trick first try. It was my signature trick. My favorite flip-trick. And I could land it almost every time.

"You know I can't do that one," said Pip. "That's not fair."

"Then land your little kickflip," I said, knowing dang well that kickflips were much easier than 360 flips.

Pip tried his kickflip again and landed it, but it was all sketchy. His back heel touched the recently paved tar; he put his foot back on his griptape and pretended that nobody saw. It's possible the girls didn't notice, but I sure did, especially as a competitive skateboarder.

Pip attempted a pop-shove-it, one of the easiest tricks of them all, but he failed again, over rotating the board and tripping over it and catching himself before he fell.

As the girls followed us, watching our competitive nature ensue, I decided to try one of my favorite, yet challenging trick of all time, a nollie 360. I jumped on my board and caught good speed—a little too much speed. Pip walked in front of the girls and watched. I put my right foot on the nose of the skateboard, my left foot in the middle of the board, ready to pop the nollie. I rotated my shoulders, ready to spin in the air. I popped the trick high, rotating my shoulders and spinning like a ballerina in the air. I over-spun, 400 degrees in the air, and suddenly, I knew I was toast. I flew backwards and tried to catch myself with my right hand. When I extended out my hand to catch my body, my entire weight was over it, and when I fell on it, I heard a loud snap when it hit the road.

Suddenly, I felt an explosion of pain in my right hand. I stood and said, "shit." I rarely ever cuss. I always felt like it was a poor use of the English language, that is, unless there's a strong and very valid reason for it (just like the word very). And this time I did, and I couldn't help it; it just came out of my mouth as I stood up and used my other hand to press on the middle of my hand. It was almost instantaneous. My hand burned hot; it swelled like a grapefruit, and the knuckles were dark purple. I felt faint.

"Are you okay, dude?" said Pip. The girls didn't say anything. They only looked at my hand with concerned, blank expressions.

"I think I broke a bone. No joke."

"No way. You need to call 9-11," said Pip. He looked distressed at my hand.

"No. I don't want to bother them."

"I can give you some Advil," said Sarah. We're here at my house." She pointed to a small yellow house with a brown door.

"I didn't know you lived so close to the skate park," said Pip.

"Now you do. I'll be right back, Sam," said Sarah. She looked at Brandi, nodded, then ran toward her house. Brandi looked at me, but she didn't say anything. She folded her arms. Pip paced back and forth. I held my hand up; my other hand held my wrist. I didn't touch the bad hand anymore because I was afraid that I would break it even worse. I started to hyperventilate. I told myself to calm down. I knew I could go into shock. I started to take deeper, slower, and steadier breaths.

Sarah came out of her house in a baggy grey Elmira High School sweater to match her EHS t-shirt underneath, holding a glass of water in one hand and her other hand closed. It took her less than a minute for her to hand me the water and the pill. I looked at the pill. It had the word Advil written on the side. I knew it was safe. It had to be. I popped it into my mouth, swallowed it down with a large gulp of water, then I finished the glass and handed it back.

"Now what are you going to do?"

"I need to go to the hospital. I need an x-ray to see if it's really broken, although I think it is—I'm confident it is."

"My parents are at work; they can't take you even if they were home, they'd kill me for talking to a boy, especially a skater-boy," said Sarah.

"Same," said Brandi. "They'd kill me in my sleep. Cyanide perhaps."

"It's okay. I'll walk home, get a ride from my grandma's friend."

"Keep me updated," said Pip.

"I'll see you at school, Sam," said Brandi. "Let us know how it goes, okay?"

"Okay," I said. "I'll do that. Thanks girls."

I dropped my skateboard on the cement and skated toward the skate park, but as I skated, my hand hurt more and more, and I found myself hyperventilating more because I thought that if I fell again, which I did so often on my skateboard, I would break my hand even worse. I got off my board and instead of kicking it up and catching it with my broken right hand, I stooped over and picked it up with my left hand, holding the board close to my left side.

I walked through the basketball court, ignoring the stares from Don, Icky, Skipples, and Roy, who tried to get my attention by waving in my direction. Icky and Don must've returned from their cigarettes not long ago, while Skipples continued to practice flat ground tricks while Roy carved the park. I didn't want to seem rude, so I gave whoever was looking a small wave with my broken hand. I tried to straighten my fingers, but they wouldn't respond. They wouldn't stretch out and they wouldn't curl into a ball. My hand felt heavier than my skateboard with the most agonizing pain ever, but I lifted it anyway and lamely waved it back and forth to them and walked on to my house.

As I walked home, my hand hurt more and more, and not only that, the swelling increased and the color of my hand continued to darken and spread. Although normally it was a 20-minute walk between the skatepark and my home, this time it felt like an hour long walk that never seemed to end.

But when I arrived at home, after passing my grandma's house, I opened the door and saw Mom in the kitchen. She had a pan on the stove and an unopened box of Tuna helper on the counter.

"You're home early," said Mom, lifting up her magnifying glass to look for the directions on the box.

"Mom, I broke my hand. I need a ride from Grandma's friend Ethel."

Mom stopped what she was doing, looked at me, and said, "Ethel is helping her family, something about Eddie moving or his sister—"

"I need to go to the emergency room. I'm in so much pain right now."

"I'll get on my shoes and call Grandma. She will come with us."

"What do you mean?"

"You're driving there."

It seemed like time stopped for a moment, then it continued long enough for me to say, "Mom, I can't drive like this. The hospital is an hour away. What if I go into shock?"

"Then too bad. Pull over. It's the only way you're going to the hospital. You know I'm blind, and your grandma, uncle, and great uncle can't drive. You're the only licensed driver in the family."

Mom walked into the living room and put on her shoes. I knew that when we go to the emergency room, it would take many hours, and I would need something to help pass the time. I went to my bedroom and unzipped my backpack with my good hand and removed my German textbook for my fourth-year German class. I didn't have a cell phone, but I had an iPod Touch and made sure it was in my pocket along with my wallet. I grabbed my car key and walked to the kitchen where Mom stood waiting for me.

"Let's go," I said. I didn't want to drive myself, but I also felt like I had no other choice. Mom grabbed her cane in one hand and held her house keys in the other. "I hate this."

I walked onto the porch and waited for Mom to double check that the door was locked, then she locked the screen door.

We walked to my white 1995 Ford Windstar van. It was my first vehicle, given to me by my mom after I got my driver's license. She bought it for $1,200 from Dan's Automotive (before they went out of business). It had a large crack in the windshield, but before she gave it to me, she had it replaced. I remembered the day when I received it. I was a sophomore in high school. I came home one day and saw my mom and our neighbors standing outside. I couldn't see the driveway because the house hid it. One of our neighbors walked up to me and said, "Sammy, close your eyes." I closed my eyes. He went behind me and covered my eyes with his hands. He told me to walk forward, so I did, careful so I wouldn't trip and fall and look stupid (although I did look silly dressed as a stereotypical skater). Then he took his hands away, and I saw my first vehicle. I almost screamed in excitement. I should have driven my van to the skate park the day I broke my hand, but of course, I didn't predict that I would break a bone—it just happened.

I couldn't start the van with my right hand, so I put the key into the ignition with my left hand and turned the key over with the same hand. And just like the idiot I can sometimes prove myself to be, I attempted to shift the van with my right hand.

"Ouch," I said. "Stupid."

"Don't do that," said Mom from the passenger seat.

"Yeah, I know...."

"Be careful."

I lifted my right hand and crossed my left hand over to the stick. I shifted the van into reverse. I was happy this van wasn't a stick shift. The van reversed slowly, and I used my left hand to steer it out of the parking lot into the road. Then I used my left hand to shift the van into drive. I knew this was going to be a challenge.

I drove the van to Grandma's. She was standing in her driveway next to the road. She got into the back seat. Uncle Robert and Great Uncle Leon stayed behind.

"How's your hand?" asked Grandma.

"It hurts like hell," I said. "Well, maybe not that bad, but pretty bad."

"You should've been careful," said Grandma.

"I know. I didn't expect this to happen."

"How did it happen?" asked Grandma.

"I was showing off, go figure."

I drove out of the mobile home park, knowing that the drive itself would prove itself to a challenge. This wasn't the first time I broke a bone. When I was in the fifth grade, I participated in an after-school program called The Explorer's Club where I learned juggling, Chinese yo-yo, regular yo-yo, and slight-of-hand magic from a local legend named Andrew the Great. We practiced in the Veneta Elementary School gymnasium. It was a small gym with no bleachers; it had only four basketball hoops and was the same place the school would have their cafeteria lunches. Before juggling class started one day, I was shooting hoops on the shortest basketball hoop. I decided to show off in front of my friends and peers and do a slam dunk, just like the players on my NBA 2005 GameCube game. I went up for the dunk, jumped in the air, but I didn't get enough air. The ball bounced off the rim, but my pinky finger got caught in the cotton net, wrapped around it and suddenly, my body hung from my broken finger. When it finally dislodged, my left pinky finger was bent all the way to the side. I should've known what showing off would do to me. Andrew the Great drove me to the hospital where they did an x-ray, then the doctor came into the room and set my finger into place. The only way I could handle the pain was biting down on my chain necklace and look the other way as he bent my finger back into place. Before we arrived at the hospital, Andrew the Great told me, "Breathe slow, so you won't go into shock. Don't think about it too much."

On my drive to the hospital after breaking my hand, I remembered that moment with Andrew the Great and decided to breathe slow, telling myself to focus on the road and take it easy. It wasn't easy, but it helped. It might've saved our lives.

For the most part, the drive to Riverbend Hospital was quiet (minus the raucous going on inside my head). Will we make it there safe? Will I pass out? What if I try to grab the steering wheel with my broken hand? What if I damage it even more? How much worse could this get? What if a cop pulls us over? What if someone rear-ends me? What if someone T-bones me? Mom and Grandma didn't say much because they knew I needed to focus on the road. And I tried my best to focus, and so far, no problem except for the anxiety and the excruciating pain that I felt in my hand, now growing into my wrist, as well.

It was like a weight off my shoulders when we arrived at the Riverbend ER. I put the van in park with my left hand, turned off the car with my left, and left the car with my left. Left, left, left. I knew this was going to be a thing for a while. And of course, I left my German textbook inside the van.

Mom and Grandma followed me inside. Mom used her cane and Grandma had troubles picking up her feet.

"I knew you could do it," said Grandma.

"We both did," said Mom.

"Thanks. But I'm really worried about my hand. I don't want them to amputate it."

"They won't do that. Don't think so negative. It might be nothing," said Mom.

I walked to the front desk where there was a woman who looked like she was in her forties. She had black hair, square glasses with a black frame, and she had a large brown mole on her chin. I was relieved to see that there wasn't a line, but that relief disappeared when I saw the waiting room packed with people with barely any empty seats available. I saw one man with a finger that was cut off. I saw a woman who looked like it could've been his wife who held the detached finger in a Ziploc bag that was filled with melting ice and blood.

"How can I help you?" said the lady at the front desk. I looked at her nametag and saw that her name was Denise. I looked back into her brown eyes.

"I broke my hand, Denise. I need help. I'm in a lot of pain. I drove here all the way from Veneta."

"That's a long way away. How did that happen?"

"I was on my skateboard... well, actually, I fell off my skateboard, to be precise."

"Name?"

"Sam Figura."

"Thank you. Here's a clipboard. Fill it out and wait over here for a nurse to call you back."

I took the clipboard with my left hand and knew that it would be a struggle to fill out. But I was also okay with that because I could write somewhat legibly with my left hand; I was almost ambidextrous because of my experience in my youth as a juggler and a slight-of-hand magician. I found a place to sit next to a large artificial plant with two seats next to me for Mom and Grandma.

It wasn't long after I filled out the form that a nurse called me back. The nurse wore a blue gown; she had blonde hair and looked to be in her mid-thirties. She looked like an older version of Sarah. While I walked toward the nurse, I received nasty glares from people who were in the waiting room longer than me (probably several hours longer than me). Mom and Grandma followed me, but neither of them paid attention to the people's awful stares (especially my mom who was legally blind). I handed the nurse the clipboard.

The nurse asked for my blood pressure; I sat on a chair; the nurse wrapped the cuff around my arm, and I waited for the machine to read my results. 141/88. A little high.

"Okay," said the nurse, "follow me back. I'll take you to a room where you will meet with a doctor who will consult you before your x-ray."

The three of us followed the nurse through two wide and tall swinging doors. Immediately we took a left and walked down a long hallway. The shrieks of patients in rooms were audible and almost fierce. We entered a room that was dimly lit. It was now quiet. The nurse indicated a hospital bed where I then sat down and looked around at the bland and dejecting interior. None of the white walls had a picture or painting. There was a white cabinet, locked and filled with doctor's instruments—nearly all of them looked frightening. The sink was cleaned and reflected the almost gray light; the hazardous waste box looked like it was full, and the container of swabs was nearly empty. The trash can looked like it hadn't been emptied all week. Wads of paper and cups and tissues filled it to the brim with one nasty banana yellow Kleenex on the floor next to it.

The nurse left the room without saying another word. She must've seen the expressions on my face while I examined the room (although I tried to hide my distaste of the place and my situation).

The nurse returned to the room and said, "We're transferring you to another room."

We followed the nurse in silence for another three to five minutes until we made it to another room. It was less dim, less messy, and far more comfortable (for an ER).

"Thank you," I said. I tried my best to smile.

She grinned back at me and left.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock at the door followed by the door swinging open and a man dressed nicely in doctor's attire entered the room.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Anderson. And you must be Sam, right?"

"That's me," I said.

"Hello," said Doctor Anderson, looking at my mom and grandma who sat across from me on two separate chairs.

"Hello," said Grandma. She chuckled.

"Hi," said Mom, sighing.

"Tell me, Sam, what did you do to your hand?"

"I was skateboarding," the doctor made a loud inhale, then exhaled quick. "I fell, caught myself with my hand, but I think my hand broke—"

"As a medical professional, I wouldn't advice anyone to ride a skateboard."

"I'm a competitive athlete. Skateboarding is a big—"

"I understand that, but as a medical practitioner, it is not recommended. Let me see your hand."

I shoved my hand out for Doctor Anderson. He rotated my wrist, looked at my hand closely, moved my fingers (which caused me to flinch), and he pressed on my knuckles where the color had turned black and blue. All of this was unbearable.

"It's definitely broken," he said. I hoped that he was wrong, especially after what he said about skateboarding. I felt insulted because skateboarding was my passion. And I was good at it, even had a local sponsor and everything at one point (until their shopkeeper retired). "Let's get you an x-ray to see the extent of the breakage."

He left the room without saying anything else.

"That sucks," said Mom.

"Yeah... tell me about it," I said.

In about 15 minutes, a knock at the door and a new person walked in—a man wearing all blue like a nurse. "You're Samuel, right?"

"Sure, but I go by Sam."

"X-rays are ready for you, Sam."

"Great. Let's go."

"Sorry, but your folks can't come with you. We don't want them exposed to the x-ray, and the safety room isn't big enough for them. They'll have to wait here. But you'll be back soon. It won't take no more than ten minutes."

"You'll be fine," said Grandma. Mom looked spaced out.

I followed the man in blue as he led me into a dark room with little overhead light. There was a padded chair in the middle of the room with a tall padded table in front of it. He told me to sit in the chair, so I did. Then he positioned my hand. He said, "Hold it there; don't move."

The man walked away into a separate room behind a small window that was so dark that I couldn't see him on the other side.

Then he came back, position my hand again, told me not to move, and disappeared behind that windowed room for less than a minute. He repeated the process several times.

"You're done. See, that didn't take long. Let's go back to your folks."

I followed him back to the same room where I reunited with Mom and Grandma.

"How'd it go?" said Grandma, elated.

"Fine," I said.

"I knew it would," she said.

"The doctor will return in 20 minutes to tell you all the results. Thanks Sam."

He left the room without hesitation.

An hour later, Doctor Anderson returned with a manila folder in one hand. He didn't soften the situation with sweet talk but went straight to the point. "Sam, you have several broken bones, some in your palm, and two of your knuckles are broken, as well. Your bones are almost shattered; you're lucky they're not. We will transfer you over to get a temporary cast made. But I will tell you this now: you will need surgery to repair the damage, and after surgery, you must not skate anymore."

Although it did bother me that he told me not to skate anymore, it bothered me even more about surgery because I never had surgery before. He opened the manila folder and showed me the x-rays of my hand—one bone completely broken down the middle.

"Do I really need surgery? Can't I just let it heal like this?"

"Absolutely not. If you don't get surgery, you won't be able to type because your middle finger will be crooked, and typing will be important for your future."

I didn't think that was true. I didn't consider college, nor did I expect to become an award-winning published author—both of which happened.

"Okay. I'll do it."

"Let's get that cast made."

I followed Doctor Anderson with Grandma and Mom behind me as we walked down many hallways and turned around many corners. When we arrived to the room, the doctor opened the door for us to walk inside, but instead of saying goodbye, he disappeared with the door swinging closed behind us. There were several people inside this large room who needed casts. A gray-haired man motioned me over while Mom and Grandma found a place to sit near the door. The man, whose nametag read: Greg Stevens, asked me to place my hand on a table. He brought over many instruments and measured my hand. Once he was done, I sat next to Mom and Grandma and waited. It wasn't long until I received a cast that fit well.

"Why do I need a cast?"

"So you won't damage your hand any worse. And if you feel pain in your hand, hold your hand up, keep it over your heart, over your head, even, so the blood goes down and reduces the swelling and pain."

"Now what do I do?"

"You may leave. But expect a phone call soon about your surgery. Good luck."

I thanked Greg and left the room with Mom and Grandma. I followed the exit signs through the maze that was the hospital. Fifteen or so minutes later, we found the emergency room lobby, but we came out of a totally different door than the one we entered.

I drove home feeling more comfortable about my hand in a cast. I knew it was protected; it didn't hurt as much as it did without a cast. The real fear now was about the surgery, especially being put under anesthesia. I never had anesthesia before. I didn't know what to expect. And I certainly didn't want to find out.

Over next few days, I went to school and had many of my friends (and several of those who never talked to me much) sign my cast. The two girls Brandi and Sarah never spoke to me after they saw me break my head; they just gave me uncomfortable glares from across the high school cafeteria surrounded by jocks.

I didn't skate for the first two days, but after those two days, I cruised around on my skateboard. I couldn't be stopped; skateboarding was my lifeblood. I didn't attempt any crazy or dangerous tricks—although skateboarding is dangerous by itself—but did what was familiar and natural to me. My main hesitation was hitting a rock or a crack in the cement that would throw me off my board, but that never happened because I stayed focused on the ground ahead of my board's wheels.

It was a little over a week since I went to the emergency room that Mom received a phone call from Slocum. I was scheduled to have my hand surgery in two more weeks. Those were the longest two weeks ever. Not only did I worry throughout my classes at EHS (and struggled with my homework because of anxiety and a miniscule lack of confidence), I continued to skate and never fell on my hand. I did, however, fall several times, but I caught myself with my good hand and landed on that side. It was entirely possible that an accident could direct my body to fall on the broken hand, but somehow, I was lucky and never fell on that side.

On the day I had surgery, two weeks later, I took the day off from school—Mom had prearranged it with the school in advance. Grandma's friend Ethel was available and drove my mom, my grandma, and I to the Slocum building along Coburg Road. When I left Ethel's van, my feet felt as heavy as a 50-pound bag of Morbread flour. I was familiar with the leg press and squats because I had a gym membership (that I didn't use since the breakage) and forced myself to carry my body inside. It had been almost a month since I used my gym membership, but I knew that once my hand healed after the surgery, I would be back at it and hoped my passions would be redirected from skateboarding to weightlifting and even perhaps some level of natural bodybuilding.

Once I checked into the front desk, a nurse called me and my folks back almost immediately. Her nametag told me that her name was Amy. She had long black hair, narrow cheeks, and big lips. She led us to a clean room that was large and inviting, but I still wasn't impressed because I had high standards. But for a surgery center, I felt somewhat comfortable (much more comfortable than the ER), yet still frightened by the notion of anesthesia. Amy walked away and left us in the room.

Less than ten minutes later, she returned with a clipboard.

"How are you feeling, Sam?"

"Anxious, very anxious."

"We can give you something for that, okay? Now, do you have any questions for me before we take you back for the procedure on your hand?"

"What does it feel like under anesthesia? Are there any risks with it?"

"Once you're under anesthesia, you won't feel a thing. You won't notice a thing. It's like a deep sleep. Think of it as the best sleep in your life. Of course, there are risks with anything, but complications with anesthesia are under 1%. And we have very talented surgeons here. Does that answer your questions?"

"Sure. I have another question: what will it be like when I wake up? Will I have pain in my hand after the surgery?"

"Good questions. When you wake up, you will feel groggy and tired. That's normal. You won't feel any kind of pain in your hand. They will use a numbing solution that will numb your entire arm from your shoulder down. You won't feel your arm for an entire week—maybe a little longer. Once the feeling starts to come back, it will feel like tingling sensations from top to bottom. And to also help with the potential pain, which should be minor (unless feeling returns sooner), we will send in an order for pain killers to your pharmacy. Any other questions?"

"I don't think so." I had other questions, probably enough to keep the conversation going for an hour or so, but since those where my top questions, I stopped there.

"Alright, soon we will have a nurse come back and hook you up with the IV. Then we will give you some morphine to help take the edge off."

Amy left the room, holding her clipboard.

I sat there for 15 minutes with Mom and Grandma. I started to hyperventilate at times because I knew the clock was ticking until the surgery, so I told myself to breathe slowly, and I did. But the low-grade fear continued to ferment, and I wasn't sure if the morphine would do anything except perhaps make the trepidation worse.

Amy returned with a case in her hand. "It looks like the other nurse is on break. So I will be hooking you up with the IV."

"You'll be fine, Sam," said Mom.

"Thanks, Mom."

"I'm glad you're wearing a short sleeve," said Amy, wheeling over a stool. "Hold out your arm." She opened the case on her knee and pulled out a variety of needles and tubes and clips. I didn't want to look at them as she hooked them together to the bag already hung on a pole next to me. "Okay, hold your arm out once again." I did as she said. She grabbed my arm with one hand and searched for a place to insert the needle. "This will be a small sting, like a bee sting—maybe not as bad though."

Sure enough, I felt the needle as I was looking away across the room. It wasn't that painful, but it made my heart race a little.

"You're done," said Amy. "See, that wasn't so bad. Now, I'll be right back with the morphine. I need special clearance to administer this drug."

"Thanks," I said. She left the room. I didn't know what it would be like to have morphine. I never had drugs before, so this was something that thrilled me, yet terrified me.

"What should I expect?" I said. I looked over at Mom and Grandma who were sitting on chairs against the wall next to the hospital bed where I was stretched out with a needle in my arm.

"I don't know, but these doctors are here to help you, not hurt you. It'll be okay," said Mom.

"Don't worry; you'll do just fine," said Grandma.

"Thanks, guys." I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep inhale, then slowly exhaled, feeling as if the world slowed down for just a moment.

The nurse arrived holding a blue case. She sat on the stool and rolled over to the IV. "Alright, Sam," said Amy. I heard her unzip the blue case. "I will administer the morphine into the line here. You will feel it come on rather suddenly, but don't worry. It will give you relief...." and suddenly, there was silence for 10 seconds. "There, you're all done. I'll give this back to the people up front. I'll be back to check on you soon."

Amy left the room.

Suddenly, as if the entire world around me was animated, I felt wonky, full of energy, and completely silly. I said, "Well, I feel something. Something. Old McDonald had a farm, and bingo was his name-oh.... Twinkie Twinkie little skater, how I wonder where you are...."

"That's not how it goes," said Mom. "Those are two diff—"

"Don't ruin it," said Grandma. The room filled with silence for a few moments.

I was overwhelmed with sudden sadness. I ruined the song, or songs. I ruined everything.

"How is everything?" said Amy as she turned the corner into the room.

I completely forgot everything prior and said, "I feel great.... best I've ever felt in my entire life. Euphoric. Why can't I feel like this forever?"

"I'm glad it helped. In about five minutes, the surgeons will enter and take you to your surgery. Don't worry, Sam; you're in great hands."

"My hand... what happened to—"

"Everything will be okay," said Grandma. "Just calm down and let the doctors work."

Amy left the room. She had a horizontal smile on her face.

Five minutes later, two men in surgical gowns walked into the room, both of them with short hair and recently shaved faces—no nametags. "We're here to take you back," said one.

"Okay," I said. It felt a twenty-pound dumbbell land on my stomach. "Bye Mom. I love you. Bye Grandma. I love you."

As I said those words, the doctors went on both side of the hospital bed, disengaged the lock on the wheels, and pushed me out the door.

"We love you too," said Grandma. I heard my mom sigh.

As they wheeled me down the hallway, one surgeon said to the other surgeon, "Did you catch the game last night? How about that pass? I mean, if number 11 keeps it up, he's about to break some records. I had about four shots before the game and two beers during, and by the time the game was over, I was hammered. Number 11 looked like 111. Ignore I said that, Sam. I woke up this morning feeling great, as if I lived my life 100 times over. You need to get out more, Scott. You can't live a good life if you're making boring choices all the time. I'm sure Sam here has more stories than you do, Scott."

The other surgeon said nothing. They wheeled me into a room that was large, and I mean, it was about the size of the inside of a Dari-Mart convenient store. They wheeled me next to a table that was covered in all types of medical instruments. I glanced over and saw them shimmering under the bright fluorescent lights. One of them looked like a saw. I looked up at the lights and tried to breathe slowly. I didn't trust these surgeons off the bat, and I still didn't, but I knew that I had no other choice. It was now or never. And certainly, they wouldn't be surgeons if they didn't know what they were doing, right?

The rest of this interaction was a blur. I couldn't remember anything after their conversation for months after the surgery. It came back to me in bits and pieces. But after some time, I remember the surgeon holding the mask over my head, placing it over my mouth and saying, "Count back from 10. Let's see how far you get."

And that was it. Half a year later, I remember waking up during the surgery, and the surgeon saying, "He's awake. We need more anesthesia." I remember looking over at my hand. It was split open; I saw the muscles and the bones and the tendons. My hand wouldn't move. Then I saw the mask covering my mouth.

I awoke in a different room. It felt like the deepest sleep I had ever slept. Nobody was in the room with me. And all I wanted was to fall back asleep, but I also couldn't sleep because this area felt so unlike home. It wasn't long until Amy returned with my mom and grandma.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Two hours. You should close your eyes and get some more rest."

I felt the effects of the morphine wearing off. It felt like the same high but lesser. I felt comfort at the sight of my mom and grandma. It felt like home. I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

When I awoke, I saw Mom and Grandma next to me seated on chairs.

"How long was I out?"

"About four more hours. How do you feel?" said Mom.

I stretched out my left arm and realized that I couldn't feel the other arm at all, nor could I move it. It felt like I had it amputated, but there was a level of phantom limb that ensured that it was still there. I looked over and saw my hand wrapped in white bandages. Later that day, they gave me a new cast.

"I feel fine. No pain. I can't feel my arm at all. Feels weird, but not in a bad way. I don't like it, but it isn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"When the nurse comes back, we can go home," said Mom.

About 30 minutes later, the nurse returned and saw me awake.

"You're up. How do you feel, Sam?" said Amy.

"Fine. I can't feel my arm at all, but at least there's no pain."

"That's what I like to hear. Remember, feeling will return in about 1-2 weeks. Are you ready to go home? I understand your ride is here."

Mom nodded. Grandma nodded.

"I'm ready."

"Good," said Amy. "In three weeks, you will return here for your physical therapy. For you to regain all the normal functions of your hand, you will need to complete therapy over several sessions for about four to six weeks."

Another nurse came into the room pushing a wheelchair. "You'll need this. We cannot let you leave unless you're in a wheelchair. It's policy. But first, on our way out the door, we will get an x-ray of your hand to see the placement of the screws."

After the x-rays came back good (they gave me a printed picture of the x-ray to keep), Amy pushed me out the front door. The sunset was a sherbet orange. Ethel had her van parked at the Slocum entrance. Amy offered to help me into the van, but I did all the work myself. I thanked her for all her assistance and waved her goodbye.

Before we went home, Ethel stopped at Grandma's house to drop her off. I decided to go inside and show Uncle Robert and Great Uncle Leon my cast.

"Check out my cast," I said to Robert. Robert and Leon were watching baseball. Robert looked over, and so did Leon.

"Wow. They sure fixed you up," said Robert.

"Sure did."

"I tell ya what," said Leon, shaking his head from side to side. "Dat der is one dang old, dang old, frizz 'ol the wall. Innert that there, boy yee. I tell ya what."

Time went by and feeling returned to my hand just like Amy described. I only used the pain pills once. It was before school one day. I was so high on Vicodin that I started yelling in the classroom. I hated that; I was embarrassed, so I threw the rest of the pills into the trash. I took off the cast once feeling had returned. I saw the gnarly stitches and a purple discoloration. On my first day of therapy, they removed the stitches. I practiced making my hand into a ball, but it wouldn't work, same with stretching out my fingers. The therapist told me to practice several times a day. I practiced by trying to hold a video game controller, which did the job just fine. My hand was able to return to fully functional before the final therapy session (in two weeks), so they cancelled all further appointments. They asked me to wear the cast for another month just to protect it. So, when Marius, our exchange student from Germany came to America, he saw me wear the cast (and he also saw me ride a skateboard). By the time I went to Germany, I was finally out of the cast and my hand was back to normal—minus the gnarly scar. I now have three screws in my hand.

Over a decade later, the scar and the memory remains. Since that surgery, I never had any issues with my hand. I was able to attend college, graduate with straight A's, write and publish a book, and continue to lift weights. After my last skateboarding video on YouTube in 2016, I retired from skateboarding competition. Although I miss skateboarding dearly, I know it isn't worth the suffering of another major injury.

Most names were changed to protect identity. If you find yourself connected to any characters in this story, it is entirely coincidental.