Pain
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash.
Twenty years ago, I broke my leg and never got it treated.
You see, I was deployed to Iraq. The eastern side of Baghdad, near Sadr City. I was a mechanic, and in the motor pool, we had drums of oil on their side with a spigot for easy filling of vehicles. Underneath each of them were wooden boxes lined with plastic bags for catching any leaks. Overall, a handy set up.
Well, one day, the barrel with transmission fluid leaked from the thread around the spigot. Being a mechanic, I thought “I can fix it” and grabbed an adjustable wrench. I put the wrench around the spigot, applied the most minute amount of pressure, and the spigot snapped. Right off! What was a slow drip became a deluge.
Luckily, I wasn’t alone in the motor pool. Another mechanic came over and helped me get the barrel upright. Out plan was to lift it, then drop it onto the leak-catching box underneath.
Well, we succeeded. Somewhat.
What ACTUALLY happened was that the barrel came down, hit one side of the box while the other side dropped further. Sending the upper edge of the barrel directly into my right shin, about two inches below my kneecap.
I screamed. The other mechanic froze. I took a deep breath and said “Other mechanic, if someone screamed like that, I’d go get a medic.”
“Do you want me to get a medic?” the other mechanic asked.
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
He’s a good guy, don’t misunderstand. Today, he does welding in the Gulf of Mexico and makes plenty of money. He works for six months, then spends the rest of the year with his wife and kids. He was only 19 then, so don’t get mad at him.
Well, the medic shows up, we walk to the aid station, and no one can tell if the one broke. There was too much swelling. It took me a year to realize that the swelling HAD ALREADY gone down, and that bump on my shin wasn’t swelling, but my misaligned tibia.
What happened was that the barrel struck my tibia, snapped it clean through, and sent the top part back about a quarter of an inch before I fell onto my feet, stopping the movement. Two hundred pounds of human would do that. They didn’t call me “Ogre” in Iraq for nothing…
These days, twenty years later, it’s mostly fine. If I jump down off of something, I don’t land on my right leg. It also hurts for a day or two before it rains heavily, but the ache stops when the rain starts. Overall, it could be far worse. My leg may be messed up, but it’s still there.
All of that hurt less than hearing Green Day in a supermarket yesterday.