Breaking into his inheritance
My 5-year old
broke his leg—roller-skating in PE. Such injuries are his birthright,
really. He comes from a long strand of highly accident prone DNA.
For instance his
namesake, my immediate older brother, broke his leg twice. The first time was
from a poor dismount off a ski lift. The second time was the result of tripping
while exiting a Dallas nightclub. Supposedly he landed at the feet of Morgan
Fairchild—and kept the cocktail he sneaked out right side up without
spilling a drop.
When that same
brother was much younger, he broke his arm. I was much younger, too. An
aspiring doctor at the time, I tied his cast to the bedpost with string,
pretending to x-ray the limb. My drawing of the fracture was crude but
accurate. The only problem was that I forgot to untie my brother's arm. Given
the scream my brother let out as he rolled over, it was a rude awakening.
My oldest brother,
Jack, also broke his leg on a ski trip. He slipped getting off the bus at the
lodge. Aprs skiing was all he managed that trip—and the sympathy of a
certain brunette who I think became his wife.
Furthermore, I've
spent more than my fair share of time in emergency rooms all over this great
nation. Early on it was a series of stitches—a few in my forehead (three
separate times), a few more in my ankle, still more above my upper lip, and yet
another set over my eye.
Fourth grade, however,
was a year of particular bad luck. I fell off a cliff at summer camp. I slid
over the ledge, bounced off a lower ledge and fell through the trees, landing
on a big rock—a very big rock. At Camp Tecaboca (an acronym for Texas
Catholic Boys Camp) it's known as Falloure's landing.
My nephews
attended Tecaboca one summer and came back excited to tell me all about the
legend. They were amazed to find it was no legend.
Nevertheless, I
broke my arm and a couple of ribs. A concussion kept me from getting anything
more than a local anesthetic as they sutured my forehead closed. When the
doctor yanked my arm to set the fracture, I rolled toward him and socked him in
the jaw.
It hurt!
That Fall, the
corner of a large plywood panel found its way deep into my leg. No crutches, no
wheel chair, no cane—and very little sympathy. Well, except decades later
from my sons who think I was horned by a rhino while on safari in Africa. I've
never been to Africa and where they got that idea I do not know.
Ahem.
So
my youngest son has a bright future ahead of him. He takes to sympathy quite
well. His brothers love pushing him in his wheelchair at lightening speeds.
Every mom gives him the "Poor baby" bit. And the extra treats and the odd
little gifts aren't half bad either. Yep, he's spoiled.
However
family patience can be thin when the little tyrant demands we retrieve a toy,
fetch more milk or seconds at the dinner table. Or when he tells me just how to
lift him without hurting his leg.
Copyright 2007 by David Falloure
