The award for…
Best Place to Break Your Collarbone While Trying to Learn Skateboarding From Someone You Started Dating Two Months at Age 27 One Month Into a Global Pandemic
Goes to…
…Palmer Park Basketball Court in Glendale.
I’m sure we all have a story about a time we tried to learn skateboarding at the ripe age of 27 because we were bored during a global pandemic and because the guy we started dating only 2 months ago skateboards but then we ended up breaking our collarbone and said guy had to give us sponge baths because it was a global pandemic and he was the only person in our pod. So, stop me if you’ve heard this one.
Before that painful day, I had been a wunderkind of sorts—hadn’t broken a bone not once in my life. People would pass me on the street, and I could hear them whispering, “Wow that’s her. The only woman to never have broken a bone not once in her life.” Fame had its perks, but there were also severe drawbacks. There was an immense pressure put on my shoulders—foreshadowing, btw—to stay intact. To never break a bone. To stay perfect forever. I was like that poor woman with Avian Bone Syndrome.
Now, I’m not saying I had never been injured before. I have had several very common injuries in fact:
slit my finger while trying to cut a hole into a plastic toy water bottle
sprained both my wrists falling backwards down a mountain while standing on a snowboard—note: I was standing perfectly still at the time of this injury
head got cracked open when my cousin accidentally threw a giant clam at my head
got a chunk of my leg taken out by a metal pole while playing Tag with my cousin*—this indirectly caused the Clam Incident™️, but that’s a story for another day*
I’m not going to pretend like I’m the first person to experience any of that. But none of those incidents broke any bones. My skull bone was not cracked open by said giant clam—a quahog really but not as many people know what those are.
This is NOT the quahog that hit my head. Please do not send ANY hate her way.
Cut to: 2020. The middle of the Covid 19 Pandemic. We had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Except…to the skate park. Or, rather…to the basketball court directly next to the skate park because I was too scared to skateboard on anything other than a perfectly flat surface. The Guy I had just started dating was a skateboarder, and I wanted him to think I was cool, hot, and coordinated.
Skateboarding scared me—especially after the Snowboarding Incident™️. But, it’s like my mom always says: “Let the desire to seem hot compel you to act.” Whether or not she’s ever actually said this is beside the point.
Things started off well enough. The basketball court had been recently redone. There wasn’t a single crack or bump along its entire surface. No one could have seen what was to come. Not even Raven. After rolling around for a while, it was time to spice things up. I wanted The Guy to see me as a serious skateboarder. He had been skateboarding since a he was kid and was not a stranger to watching hours of footy of professional skaters. Why I thought I could impress someone with these credentials remains a mystery that scientists are still trying to solve to this day.
He showed me a move called “a manual.” I had never driven stick shift myself, so I was a little worried. He explained that a “manual” was where you lift the front two wheels off the ground while balancing on the back two wheels. All while moving forward. A nose manual was where you do the same but lifted your back wheels. This Guy wasn’t going to be impressed with the straightforward version, so naturally I attempted a nose manual.
And I landed it! The crowd went wild! For about 0.02 seconds before an earthquake hit Los Angeles. I was sent flying. Children were crying. Someone was yelling at everyone to duck and cover.
Ok, so there was no earthquake, but it felt like there had been one. Not sure how else I could have fallen.
The board slipped out from under me, and I was forced into the world’s most embarrassing somersault. Even though I was in the worst pain of my life (worse than the Clam Incident™️), it wasn’t until I reached up and touched my shoulder that I knew something was wrong. Later, The Guy would tell me he thought I had just knocked the air out of myself until he, too, touched my shoulder. He then internally started to panic, but somehow kept a calm demeanor. If he wanted to he would, ladies.
It was easy to convince myself I had simply dislocated my shoulder. All it needed was a quick and easy pop back into place.
My therapist has since taught me that this is a “learned trauma response.” Apparently, when an emergency happens, your first instinct should not be “I’ll pop it back into place, so I can avoid needing medical intervention.”
Luckily, the pain was far too great for me to be able to build up the courage to do any popping—or locking and dropping for that matter.
There are a lot of basketball courts next to skate parks where you could break your collarbone, but I promise that Palmer Park is your best choice: the entrance is just wide enough for an ambulance to drive through. Since I was in American and didn’t have a spare $2,000, we went with a cheaper vehicle option.
She’s beauty and she’s grace. She’s a sloped ramp that goes right up to the basketball court.
The Guy (over 6” since that matters 🙄) grabbed my car (2016 dark grey Honda Civic, since that also matters here 🙄) and drove right up to my writhing, broken body. We (he, I was of zero help) somehow got me into the car. Absolutely no thanks to the man walking by who yelled, “Is she ok? What happened? She fall or something?” then instead of offering to help just watched us struggle to shove me into the passenger seat while continuing to ask questions.
We went to Urgent Care and got an X-Ray. The told me way, “It looks like a fracture.” They said this in such a casual way that I immediately thought “hairline fracture.” No big deal. I spent the next 2 days waiting to see a doctor not realizing that, in fact, my collarbone had fully broken in half. The ortho would later tell me that the separated halves of my bone were 2 centimeters apart from each other. And that one of those broken halves was 1 millimeter away from puncturing through my skin. Honestly, glad I had no idea.
Then came the surgery. Which was followed by…sponge baths. From…a man I met 2 months ago. He became a one-man care team since it was April 2020 and no one else could come over to help. He took care of me with the most kindness and gentleness. Even when I couldn’t stop crying because I hate someone taking care of me and not being able to do anything for myself—another trauma response, I’m told.
He did such a good job taking care of me, that I decided to make us Facebook Official soon after…because you never know when you may break a second bone and need a willing nurse.
I guess when all said is done (sp?), this is really a story about love. Not about the bones we break but the lovers (sorry) we make along the way.
Anyway, we’re married now so I guess it’s true what they say, “if you can’t find love on dating apps, then I suggest you attempt to learn skateboarding with a guy you just met but then break your collarbone so he’s forced to be your nurse which results in you two falling in love.” A tale as old as time.
