I broke my leg in third grade.

The Roessleville elementary school gymnasium floor was a giant poured rubber slab, instead of wood or some other laminate. I’m sure this was some fancy space-age idea when it was built in the 70s, but it was effectively a big solidified slab of Jello, that would rip the skin from your knees if you fell. It was  the world’s slipperiest surface when wet and world’s stickiest floor the rest of the time. During an indoor PE class kickball game I kicked the ball for a whopper and had almost rounded the bases completely when someone accused me of missing a base. I reversed direction, ran back to the missing base with all my speed, planted my leg on the white square painted into the rubber floor, pivoted and pushed off to continue back around in the hopes of completing my home run. That jump plant twist push is, it turns out, the perfect way to give yourself a spiral tibial fracture. There was an audible crack. I collapsed in a heap, and in a rare show of fortitude and focus, began to army crawl my way to the next base, only to be hit in the butt by a thrown red-rubber kickball soon after. I remember making a very disturbing groan while crawling and I remember being incredibly mad at whoever had thrown the kickball and gotten me out.

I sat in the nurse’s office dreading my dad’s impending arrival while waiting to get picked up to go to the ER. I honestly don’t know why I thought my mom and dad would be angry with me for breaking my leg. I know I was more focused about disappointing him than the pain.  He was, of course, wonderful and caring. 

I broke my leg in February in upstate New York, which is a bad time of year to live in sweatpants with the seams ripped down one leg so they can go over the cast. It’s an even worse time not to be able to put socks and shoes on over bare toes. My aunt Peggy Coryea custom made me a knitted booty that looked like a sneaker, and then made another even more custom knit sneaker that matched the color and pattern of my actual green suede sneakers, so I could look like I had a match set! 

Two or three days after the ER I had to go to the orthopedic doctor for my permanent cast. His office was an old Victorian house in downtown Albany and it had a long sidewalk. I had only used crutches for a couple days, most of which had been getting from bathroom to couch. I remember looking through the car window at the icy patches and snow drifts with fear. I don’t remember if we talked about it, but dad picked me up and carried me across the ice and snow to the front door. That moment in his arms is the embodiment of feeling safe and protected from the world.