Thems The Breaks

About three hours ago a doctor of osteology I had never met before looked at me gravely, made a faux dramatic pause and told me, “You may never straighten it again.”

No! Rewind doctor! This wasn’t how I pictured it. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. But it also wasn’t the worst fear realised, that I had always imagined it might be.

My worst fear isn’t injury. I kind of have a morbid self-indulgent fascination with that. No I’m more paralysed by the whole idea of permanence. I hate that word and all it, and its antonyms stand for. Permanent, eternal, forever, infinite. The very concept of them put the fear of god in me. They’re all just so, fixed, immutable inflexible. I’m terrified by the idea of anything being so committed for all life.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a commitment phobe, I hope. I tick the financial commitment box with a mortgage; I’ve had my share of steady relationships (steady and relationship – there’s two words that should never sit happily in a sentence) and happy to have kids. All fine. But also all reversible - except that kid thing of course.

Friends are always curious why I don’t have any tattoos. The presumptive request, “James, show me yours,” is one I’ve heard often. I assume they think I look like the sort of person who should have a snake emblazoned across their ass and after all, I've tried every other method to piss my parents off while growing up. So while I quietly concur that theirs indeed looks lovely, I may not want decorative barbed wire, blue and green dancing lizards or philosophical Chinese hieroglyphics staring back at me when I brush my teeth at 60. I may not even want it next week. When they invent the ever-changing tattoos - ones that cutely rotate like a Microsoft screen saver – I’m in. Until then, even the moles on my shoulder have outstayed their welcome. It’s just all so indelible.

So a month ago, at the hazy end of my brother’s stag night, drunken tomfoolery sent my full body weight on top of my elbow with only the pavement to break my fall. Oh how we laughed. Actually I didn’t. By all accounts I marched around in circles, gripped my arm like Quasimodo and let a full torrent of abuse loose on the perpetrator. Off to A&E we all trouped and by dawn the hospital cheerfully informed me I had a fractured elbow and a torn ligament.

My brother of course found it all highly amusing – until coincidence and karma conspired to find him back at the same hospital a week later with two fractured ribs. He did it in a kiddie’s sack race. Oh how I laughed. I suggested we had one of those park benches installed outside x-ray in our honour, with the engraving, ‘here sat the Gilbey brothers, clumsy fuckers.’

Two subsequent trips weeks later to the aforementioned x-ray booth and here I was in front of Dr Bones and his solemn dispatch,

“Elbows are strange things and I’m afraid you may never straighten it fully again.”

I looked at him expectantly. Is that it? IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO? He was a Jewish doctor so at the very least I expected a punch line for chrisakes,

“You may never straighten it again… but hey the good news is there’s a guy in the next door booth who wants to buy your climbing equipment.”

Give me something here. Anything. I stepped in for him; “I guess the weight lifting career’s over then?” It was lame I admit, emphasised by him actually looking at my toned but hardly bulging biceps to see if I was for real.

“Keep going to physio and it will mostly straighten and probably only you will know it’s not entirely straight. Good luck.” And that was that.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. In my morbid self-indulgent fantasy the family, friends, lovers, ex lovers were all gathered round the bed as drips and monitors dramatically clicked and beeped. Deep voice, “He may never straighten it again,” tears, wailing, roll credits.

All I got was a 6-month physio chit and a mildly gammy arm. Worse, this was final. Actually and utterly permanent.

But there’s something I kind of like about it. I have an arm that won’t straighten. I have a proper war wound. A real semi disability with a story behind it that will no doubt get embellished over the ages. They may even give me a blue car badge entitling me to legitimately park near the entrance of Tesco.

As I write this I’m now thinking of getting it tattooed to highlight my plight. Something along the lines of a dotted arrow half way down and the words, ‘Bend Here’.

I will of course change my mind tomorrow.

(Post Script - Click on comments below and read Mat's. Pure comedy gold.)