This weekend Andy and I were out on the field with Molly and as usual, Andy was hitting tennis balls with a racket for Molly to run after. We've had to take it easy with this game as Molly's back leg has been giving her some pain in recent weeks due to a slight touch of arthritis. One of her favourite games is when Andy hits the ball high, and it comes down at quite an arch. She never takes her eye off it and has herself strategically placed to jump for it when it lands. Its a beautiful sight to see, her lithe body jumping through the air to catch the ball when it bounces. I swear, sometimes she gets four feet off the ground. Sadly, we have to refrain from doing this as it's just too hard on her joints. As the vet said, labs weren't made for jumping. Chewing through your kitchen table and eating like a starved vagabond yes, but not jumping. However sometimes its hard to resist and Saturday was one of these days. Andy couldn't help himself and fired up to send one high. I had reminded him not to do it and as the ball bounced up from the ground after his second shot, I reached out my hand to retrieve it. It was just at a moment when Andy pulled back and swung for one more go; we heard the crunch as that racket hit my hand. I think I was in slight shock and had to think about what had just happened; I didn't have long to ponder as the pain hit fast and hard; kind of like the racket. Fuck me (yes I swore), that sucker hurt. I grabbed my fingers and held them to stop the burning pain and was walking away toward home as I tried to fight back the tears.
Andy was behind me asking me to stop and come back so he could look. I finally got myself together and went back. I think he was afraid my fingers were broken and that he was going to end up with a racket up his ass. But luckily enough my fingers weren't broken, just badly bruised and it wasn't any body's fault that I was stupid enough to put my hand out for that ball.
My fingers were slightly bruised and oddly enough, on Sunday other than some dark colouring, they were almost back to normal. Technically, they probably should have been broken or sprained, but they weren't. I suppose I just have strong bones, because when you look back on the following events its I wonder I haven't been in a cast several times over (and these are just a few instances):
When I was approximately eight years old, I was coasting down the hill near our apartment building and swerved to miss something. I was thrown over my handlebards and landed full on my hand. My fingers bent straight back, yet didn't snap. Lucky girl...
When I was 23 I was in a bar on George Street in St John's Newfoundland; I missed three steps coming of the elevated dance floor and landed hard on my side, twisting my ankle in the process. It was so swollen I couldn't get my cowboy boot off (yes, I said cowboy boot) for almost 24 hours; I just kept dropping ice down into it until I could get my foot out. (No, I was not cutting my boot off, I loved those shit kickers.) My ankle was badly sprained, but defintely not broken.
Although I'm a terrible skier, I submitted myself to a few trips with Sandra and Cat. During one of these trips, I was hurtling down a slope I should not have been on and because I couldn't figure out how to stop, I headed for Sandra, who had stopped to wait for me; I slammed straight into her, went up and over her and landed on my shoulders, just below my neck. Ski patrol happened to be right there and came running over yelling at me not to move. They were in disbelief when I sat up and said 'God, am I embarrased' (Lucky I'm used to that feeling). Again, nothing broken but sore and tender for a few days after.
Cat and I were on a night out one evening not long after I'd started dating Andy. I didn't see a pothole in the sidewalk and of course, stepped straight into it; I fell so hard and awkwardly I not only tore the skin off my knees, but both of my ankles rolled in such a way that I had quarter sized pieces of skin torn off the tops of my feet, right above where shoe laces tie up. How the hell does that happen??? I couldn't wear my trainers or shoes for a few weeks after due to my swollen ankles and the wounds on the top of my feet. Good thing it was summer and I like flip flops.
I won't go into the number of times I have fallen and landed on my hands and knees, other than to highlight a few more instances of my un-graceful behaviour: tripping over a step whilst leaving Venus Pizza in downtown Halifax at 2 am; rushing through a train station in Italy and falling over someone's suitcase; stumbling over a root during a walk in the Yorkshire Dales... each and every time the end result was a very painful landing on all fours. I have incredibly small wrists and the fact that they have withheld the bulk of my body without snapping is astounding. My knees however, have paid the price of this constant abuse and although nothing has ever broken, these pups probably won't see me through to my golden years.
So... I have to wonder was it all the homoginized milk (gross) I drank while growing up? Or the grilled cheese sandwiches (yum) mom made us for lunch? Perhaps its the yoghurt and cheese I continue to consume on a daily basis... Good bone genes? It could be anything. Oh why couldn't it have been great skin genes? Yet would I trade these sturdy bones for better skin? I want to say yes, but not a chance. I can (mostly) cover up my blemishes. A cast is not something I don't want to wear on a regular basis and if you take away my strong bones and add that to my clumsiness I fear that is exactly what would happen. I'll take what I have thanks, and prepare myself for my next mishap.