Broken Bones

For the first 28 years of my life, I managed to keep intact every single bone of my body. Not a solitary chip, crack, or fracture marred my perfectly ossified skeleton. That flawless skeletal model at the front of the anatomy classroom—that was me. Whenever I needed to pull out a fun fact about myself for a party game—or win the “most boring person in the room” contest—I always had the “never broken a bone” card to pull. Two truths and a lie. Got it. Fun (or boring) fact about yourself. Done.

As a child, when my elementary school friends occasionally came to school sporting their neon-colored casts, I signed them, subconsciously grateful that my own bones required no external splinting to keep their ordained shape. I listened to the cringe-worthy stories of falls, accidents, and crashes shared by my friends, shuddering to the depths of my own unmarred bones. The accounts were always riveting, either because the person engaged in some intense risky behavior, or because the accident was so mundane it was laughable. Long-boarding. Tripping in the shower. Slipping on ice. Falling out of a tree. I could see that the world was a dangerous place for bones. But I was going to outwit it. I was going to be careful and avoid disrupting any of my carefully aligned bone cells.

I’ve generally considered myself a pretty cautious person, perhaps to a fault. I won’t go into a list here of the various physical activities I have abstained from, because I’m no longer vying for that “most boring person in the room” award. But suffice it to say, I’m not a risk-taker. In fact, probably the most daring thing I’ve ever done physically wasn’t my own choice—I was deceived and tricked into repelling down that 190-foot cliff.  Had the group inviting us on the camping trip informed me and my best friend that the repelling was a necessary part of our canyoneering experience and not merely an optional activity, I would have stayed safe and sound in my college apartment, thank you very much. (Although, in retrospect, I’m very glad I did it. Perhaps I simply need more people to invite me on dangerous trips without full disclosure of all the activities required…But I digress.)

So needless to say, I never had the opportunity to break my leg snowboarding or break my neck cliff-jumping. As long as I had any say in the matter, I was going to keep myself intact.

At least, until I got a toddler. Perhaps there exist in this world calm, mild-mannered toddlers, the type that obey you and stay nearby in public and don’t try to run away or steal strangers’ food or do the opposite of everything you ask them to do or hug-tackle every child they see. And maybe there are also green pandas. But I wouldn’t know. My little Junior, however, is a delightfully impish little creature, bent on breaking every bone in his body before he turns five years old. Despite his best efforts and countless leaps and tumbles, however, the only bone he’s broken so far has been mine. In his defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault. It was just a terrible combination of his undying love for everything with a cord and electricity, and my love of romping on the floor with said toddler. These two tendencies aligned one day, as Junior curiously pulled on the charging cord of a laptop sitting on the table above him. I was unfortunately on the floor in the direct path of the laptop as it followed the yank of its cord right onto the bridge of my nose. Stunned by the sudden blow and crying from the surprise and pain of it all, I ran to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. (And a very confused toddler, who was nonetheless happy to have gained free reign of the computer for the first time in his life.)

Noses are funny little things. By very nature, they protrude, capturing air and smells and filtering out foreign objects. Unfortunately for them, that very protrusion makes them vulnerable to attack. And re-attack. It’s as if a broken nose is just sitting there, asking to be smacked again, unable to defend itself. There’s nowhere to hide it. Nothing to splint it to. And when you happen to have a snuggly (and occasionally upset and flailing) toddler who sits on your lap, you nose is suddenly in perfect range for constant and accidental head-butting.

For weeks and months, my nose ached, and the break was irritated with Junior’s every accidental smack. I lived in fear of anything getting close to my face. Certain facial expressions were too painful to pull anymore. Blowing my nose was a daring endeavor. And I didn’t even get a pink cast for everyone to sign. (Which, let’s be real, is a good thing. I can think of few things that would make you more self-conscious in public than a neon blob of plaster in the middle of your face.)

One nice thing about noses, though, is that you don’t have to walk on them. For all that they stick out and constantly beg to be hit by any and every nearby entity, they are fortunate in that they get to sit on your face all day and relax and heal (until the flying objects come near, of course). You don’t have to limp or get crutches for a broken nose. They have no weight to bear. Big toes, however—now those are subject to the unrelenting pressuring of being walked on day in and day out.

That Wednesday had proceeded like any other. We had completed our activity at the church where I volunteer with a youth group, and I was helping to clean up the room. We had used a large folding table as part of the activity—one of those 8-foot-long monstrosities with the plastered-on label, “don’t drop this on your foot.” I don’t know how many times I have put up and taken down such tables without a problem. Sure, maybe a pinched finger here or there or a smashed arm once in a while, because those table are unwieldy and obnoxiously heavy for someone like me with no upper-body strength. But putting away folding tables had never made it my “keep-my-body-uninjured” list of activities to avoid. Yet as I chatted with one of the young women who was still there, I tipped the table onto its side to fold it up. But somehow that tip landed the full weight of the falling table onto my unsuspecting toes.

Suddenly my ears started ringing. Swimming clouds of gray clouded my vision, and nausea gripped my stomach. Not one to easily let people in to my personal pain, I pretended nothing was wrong, continuing my conversation with the youth. I calmly folded the table and finished making small talk with the other people there, pretending that I actually was paying attention to discussions about nicknames and laptop covers. But all I really was thinking about was the screaming and splintered fragments of myself held together inside my shoe. Finally, I was able to extricate myself from the church, and once safely within the silencing confines of my car on the road, the pain in my foot screamed its presence through my willing lips. I didn’t even care if the other drivers had their windows down.

“Of course it would be my right foot,” I muttered, wincing as I gingerly stepped on the gas. Despite the fire that raged each time I accelerated, I determined it would be better to drive with a throbbing right foot than risk the pain of trusting an inexperienced left foot, the results of which could have turned my broken toe into a much larger problem. So I swallowed the agony and pretended it didn’t cause excruciating pain to apply the brakes. Somehow I made it home with no mishaps. I hobbled up the stairs to my third-floor apartment and calmly announced to my husband, “I broke all my toes.” Which was, of course, an exaggeration, as the next morning’s x-rays showed. Luckily it was only a fracture in the big toe. Sure, that’s fine. Except, wait, what did you say? …crutches? If it had been any other toe, the urgent care doctor continued, we could just tape it up and let the buddy system do its work as a splint. Big toes, though—now those bear too much weight when you walk for you to just be able to leave the clinic on your own two feet. So we’re going to set you up with some crutches….

Hot, irrational tears that had dammed themselves in their safe, cozy ducts, unwilling to be lured out even in the moment of a bone being shattered, suddenly spilled from my post-partum eyes. How was I supposed to take care of two humans under two while on crutches? I mentally pictured myself hobbling up to my third-story apartment on crutches, my infant strapped to me, my unwieldy toddler refusing to mount any more stairs. No. I can’t. Sniffling defiantly and conspicuously, I swung my way out of the office on my new crutches.

Luckily, however, that evening the orthopedic doctor gave me a “fracture shoe” and told me I could ditch the crutches as soon as I felt ready. Needless to say, I didn’t use them again after that evening, thereby saving at least two lives on my apartment stairs.

For the next few weeks, I hobbled around gingerly. My big toe stuck out, begging to be stepped on by everybody in my vicinity. I quickly learned how frequently I had previously been kicking toys out of my path while walking. Within twenty minutes, I mastered the side-of-the-foot-run-to-save-the-toddler’s-life gait that came in handy many times. Who knew so much of normal life and movement was dependent on the humble body part, the big toe? Good thing I didn’t want to exercise or lose my baby weight or anything like that.

After a couple days of lurking around the house, my boys and I were stir-crazy and ready to venture outside. So I strapped baby Sprout into his backpack, took Junior’s hand, and we ventured out for our first of many broken-toe outings. The ensuing adventures were memorable. Chasing Junior all over the art museum. Trying to prevent him from falling off the playground. Limping slowly around the neighborhood looking for sticks. One particular day, Junior, as he was wont, insisted on pushing the stroller instead of riding in it. My independent little man doesn’t like any assistance when he is doing his own thing, so if he is pushing the stroller, you better not have your hand anywhere nearby or he will forcibly remove it. Which is fine. Until we approach a street, at which point he knows he is not allowed to move independently. On that morning, as we approached the street together, I informed Junior that I needed to hold on to the stroller with him as we crossed the street. This was acceptable to him for approximately ten feet, at which point he pulled the floppy -toddler card from his box of tricks and began thrashing in the middle of the street. Adrenaline pumping and blood rushing to my face out of embarrassment, I grabbed the stroller in one hand, my floppy, thrashing toddler in the other, and waddled across the street in my fracture boot with Sprout strapped to my chest. As soon as we reached the sidewalk, I released Junior, who immediately crumpled to the ground, screaming in frustration that I had usurped his will and ruined his life. While I tried to negotiate with him, one of the cars that had been waiting patiently for us to finish our street-crossing debacle drove past. The woman driving rolled down her window and yelled to me, “You’re doing a great job!” I smiled wearily at her and waved my thanks. I can only imagine that this woman was herself a veteran in the toddler power-struggle war, but I couldn’t decide if I was more grateful or embarrassed by her very public comment. Probably embarrassed. I peeled Junior from the ground and we continued our waddle down the sidewalk.

Day by day, hour by hour, imperceptibly, the pain in my toe lessened. The bone regrew. The swelling subsided. Then one day, I realized I was no longer thinking about my toe. I was walking normally. Through mechanisms beyond my comprehension, my body had miraculously healed itself.

Just over a year after breaking my big toe, I discovered firsthand the truth of what that urgent care doctor said—breaking any other toe than the big one isn’t a huge deal. Sure, it hurt when that bundle of firewood suddenly separated itself from the handle that bound it together and flung itself impetuously onto my foot. But the resulting broken toe delighted in snuggling up to the one next to it, securely immobilized while it healed. No crutches, no boot, and only minimal limping. Within a couple weeks, I found myself no longer crying out in pain whenever a super-active toddler accidentally jumped onto my foot. Once again, the silent, microscopic processes of healing had restored my bone to its solid and whole state and my nerves were relieved of the responsibility of carrying pain signals to my brain.

In a 2016 talk on gratitude, President Eyring lists various blessings we can to be grateful for. One of the things he mentions is gratitude for a broken bone that heals. I can attest to that. It feels wonderful to be able to walk freely, not having to adjust your gait to compensate for a wounded toe. It is liberating to be able to mount stairs, carrying 50 pounds of little boys without having to worry about injuring a toe further. I didn’t realize how good it feels to have a solid, unbroken bone until mine found themselves in pieces. You never really notice how much you rely on a particular body part until it’s in pain. I’d never paid too much attention to my big toes, to be honest—they were just always there; always did what they were supposed to humbly and silently, allowing me to walk and run and romp with tiny humans.

In the New Testament, Paul compares the church to a body. “For the body is not one member, but many,” he says. “The eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee: nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you…And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honored, all the members rejoice with it.” (1 Cor. 12:14, 21, 26. KJV) Right he is. When my big toe was broken, I definitely was not thinking about how wonderful my pinky finger felt. When my nose was broken, I was not focused on my knee. My whole body suffered together, united in one grand groan of discomfort. What if that’s how our families were? Our neighborhoods? Our church congregations? Our nations? What if we felt each other’s pain? Not just abstractly, but keenly, acutely, to the point where we focus our attention on our suffering members? The way Christ felt our pain?

Lina Kostenko, a Ukrainian poet, muses on the Armenian phrase “tsavet tanem”—“Let me take your pain.” My ear feels the pain of my nose. My neck feels the pain of my toe. And I have no choice in that—I am one, whole body, connected by trembling nerve cells and vibrating ligaments. But when it comes to feeling the pain of another person, I have a choice. I can either reach into my common humanity with mankind—the body of the church or of the community—and choose to feel my friend’s pain, or I can turn inward, ignore my connection and dismiss the pain of others. Obviously, it’s easier to turn away; to ignore suffering. I mean, if I could have chosen to not feel the pain of my broken nose, I probably would have. But sometimes I think God needs us to choose to feel pain—to choose to sit with the friend who just lost his job; to hug the sister who wonders when she will get married; to call the grandmother who lives alone; to grieve in silence with the friend who will never bear children; to weep with the man who lost his wife.

I wouldn’t choose to break a bone. But I want to choose to feel other’s pain. To take their pain, as much as is in my power. To mourn with those that mourn. To be the ankle to somebody’s broken toe. To be the ear to the fractured nose.

Tsavet tanem.