In general, I was a tough kid.  I was a total tomboy, preferring to join my older brother and his friends in “boy play” than sit down with dolls and frilly things.  I played up a year and on a boys soccer team (my brothers) from age 4-11.  At 11, I was recruited onto a premiers girls team in my area.  I climbed trees, built forts, played Cowboys and Indians, and whatever else seemed fun and interesting.

Being that active, I was no stranger to bumps, bruises, and injuries.  Once, while climbing a neighbor’s tree, I feel 10 feet, flat on my back after the branch broke.  Thankfully, the only hard was momentarily having the wind knocked out of me.  But when my friend insisted on getting his dad to make sure I was okay, I was furious!  I didn’t need help.  I was tough.  Out of my way.

On another my family and I were out sledding one winter.  Taking turns down the hill, the “mom-and-me” team went a bit faster and a bit further than intended.  With slow blowing all around, I was forced to close my eyes and did not see the building that approached.  The sled turned just in time to SLAM my back into the corner of the building.  Once again, the wind was knocked out of me.  And boy oh boy, did it hurt.  But “leave me alone” was my way of handling such occasions, and I simply wanted to be left alone to recover my breath and my pride in peace.

And yet, even I knew there were some injuries that were real injuries.  Playing soccer, when a player went down it was not uncommon for them to be asked, “Are you injured or just hurt?”  The implication was, “If you are injured, we need to carry you off the field and tend to you.”  “If you are simply hurt, get up!  Suck it up and get back in the game.”

As a 3rd grader attending summer camp, I experienced an injury.

Climbing on the monkey bars during free time, I managed to fall.  Well, I was climbing on top of the bars, not so much on them.  Anyway, I fell and landed on my wrist.  It hurt real bad.  It hurt like crazy.  It hurt so much that I knew I should tell one of the camp counselors because some sort of medical intervention was like necessary.  And had it been my left wrist, I would not have hesitated to do so.  But it wasn’t my left wrist.  It was my right wrist.  My Poland Syndrome wrist. The one connected to my Poland Syndrome hand, which looking more like a lobster’s claw than a hand.  And if I told the counselor she would have looked closely at my wrist.  And would probably bring over another counselor  to look at my wrist for a second opinion, before maybe sending me onto a doctor who would also look at my wrist.

I was under no delusion that by now they hadn’t noticed my hand, but at the same time I had no desire to invite a closer look.
Well, all my efforts to keep my wrist under wraps failed as I was clearly in pain and was clutching my arm for the rest of the day.  The counselor asked me twice if I was okay.  Both times I assured her that I was, but she wasn’t buying it.  Some ice and an ace bandage later I was back to normal, sans the monkey bars.