A Broken Bone

     I broke a bone, a matter of which I am both proud and embarrassed.  Proud, because immediately following the incident, my reaction was not to thrash and cry and plead for someone to take the pain away.  Which is a moderately impressive claim, because a broken clavicle (accompanied, I feel compelled to add, by a sound whack to the head and considerable bruising to the hip/abdominal area) is nothing to sneeze at. 

   Along with the pride I admittedly harbor embarrassment toward myself and the incident because goshdarnit I thought I was more graceful than that.  For twelve years I boasted that why yes, I fall off horses sometimes, everyone does, but I have never broken anything, I fall so well.  In fact, I had gone so far as to think of myself as something of an equestrian ninja: judging distance, mastering the use of momentum, practicing mid-air relaxation techniques.  In my defense I had no delusions of grandeur: I fell short of earning my made-up equestrian black belt, as I never quite mastered the technique of landing on my feet. 

   Anyway, for those unfamiliar with the tale, I’ll bring you up to speed:

On Good Friday of this year, the finger of God was extended toward me and my unchecked pride as I mounted a horse who, for inexplicable reasons started bucking like it was possessed, resulting in a rather violent and unintentional dismount on my part.  I don’t remember the landing, only the thought that it was wildly peculiar to be dreaming in the middle of the day.  That thought was immediately followed by the onset of considerable discomfort, the realization that I was not at all well, and, not long afterward, the confirmation from a doctor: “You broke it alright.” 

   Although this is the only break with an accompanying X-ray to prove it, it is my deep and abiding suspicion that this break was not my first.  There was an incident on a ski hill a few years back involving my tailbone that kept me out of the saddle for seventeen days, the full narrative of which may find its way into my blog if you’re lucky.  Some of you may be thinking I didn’t know Meg could ski… In point of fact I wasn’t skiing, I was snowboarding.  And no, I’m not a snowboarder; that was the problem in its entirety. 

   Amidst all of the hardships of breaking a bone and enduring the recovery process, one travesty stands out among the others, and that is this: I sound more like my mother than ever before.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother, she is a dear woman and she did a good job raising me, period.  But I wanted to put off “sounding like my mother” as long as possible; everyone does, on principle alone.  Now that I have experienced the level of pain that I have, I want very much for everyone else to not experience it too.  So I see people in compromising situations (about to injure themselves), and even if it’s nothing more than an impending toe-stub, out comes an unintentional (believe me) Mom Impression: “Ooh…be careful!” 

   Accompanying the Mom Impression is the stinging twisting sensation in the gut of the impressionist when observing another individual’s impending doom.  As a direct result of said gut twist, I can no longer watch America’s Funniest Home Videos.  Not that it was ever a really fantastic show, but I would watch it sometimes and Mom would audibly cringe, and now I understand. 

   So, in conclusion I would like to leave you with two bits of advice: firstly, don’t break any of your bones…its not comfortable.  Secondly, just be careful in general so I don’t have to sound like my mom any more than necessary.  Oh, and thirdly, always wear a helmet when riding.  It is rumored that the Queen of England refuses to wear a riding helmet, but I say wear one, I always do because they come in handy.