January 31, 1988.
Five months pregnant with my sixth baby.
And playing center for my women’s basketball team in a winter tournament.
We had won both of our games, positioning ourselves for the semi-final the next day.
My slightly pudgy self had even managed a break-away and lay-up.
Only one, but hey . . .!
And in a euphoric haze, Husby and I were heading over to an activity at the church.
Where we’d be playing volleyball.
My team scored a point.
I leaped into the air, kicking one leg and punching both hands upward in triumph.
Then I looked down.
Huh. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, both of my legs had kicked out.
I fell heavily on my right hand.
Back on my feet, I continued to play.
Went up for a spike.
And realized that something was definitely wrong.
Hands aren’t supposed to hurt like that.
Long story short, A quick trip to emergency confirmed my suspicions.
Not only had I broken the bottom right off the bone, but my continued playing had then crushed the broken-off piece.
I won’t describe the process to get everything back where it should be, or the needle from hell.
Suffice it to say, because of an excellent doctor, I was soon on the mend.
Six weeks in a cast.
Moving forward to yesterday . . .
My daughter and I had decided to go snowboarding. I’m always up for something new.
She had just started and loved it!
The conditions weren’t ideal.
It had been warm and snowless for a number of weeks and the only powder was what had been ground up by the resort’s grooming machines.
But we had fun.
I stayed prudently on the bunny hill with several dozen little kids.
Had, after three tries, mastered the rope tow.
I was king of the mountain!
Up the tow.
Down the slope in an ever-increasing need for speed.
Okay, you have to know that the speed I was needing was just slightly faster than a walk.
Yeah. Daring, I’m not.
We decided on one last run.
And that’s when it happened.
A spectacular crash.
And an all-too-familiar ‘weak’ feeling in my right wrist.
It’s been 26 years, less four days.
I’m back in the cast again . . .