The Danger of Spinning Monkey Bars

I dangled from the second of three giant steering wheels, my right arm stretching to grab onto the third one. My fingers barely grazed the side of the wheel when I felt my left hand starting to slip. Realizing that I wasn't going to make it to the third wheel before I lost my grip on the second, I turned around and headed back to the play structure, where a line of kids had started to form. 'I will get to the end of these monkey bars before the end of the summer,' I thought to myself, determined to accomplish that goal.

However, after that day, I would avoid those types of monkey bars for a long time. I don't know if I was pushed by the impatient kid at the front of the line, or if I had lost my footing on the play structure, but, either way, I ended up on the ground.

I must have landed on top of my left arm, because the next thing I knew, I was picking myself up off the ground, cradling it close to my body as if my life depended on it. The fall wasn't that big, maybe three feet from the ground, but the pain was like nothing my six-year-old self had ever felt before. I remember screaming, nothing else, no tears, just screaming.

A nearby camp counselor came over and walked me back to the school. "It's broken," I cried decisively, over and over again as we crossed the street. "I think it's broken." At this point, I had rivers flowing from my eyes.

"No," the counselor said, trying her best to calm the hysterical six-year-old walking next to her. "It's not broken."

"Yes, it is," I insisted stubbornly, refusing to accept any other conclusion.

"Can you move your arm?" she asked me as we approached the building.

Slowly, gently, I unfolded my arm from my body, straightening it as much as possible. As I did this, I felt a sharp pain shoot through my arm. It felt like my bones were grinding against each other just a few inches above my elbow.

"See," the counselor said upon watching me move my arm. "Not broken."

I want to say that I gave her a look that read, 'Are you blind! Can you not see how painful it was for me to do that!' but I think I was too shocked to look at anything besides my arm. Surprisingly, I was able to move it normally, but the pain from doing so was unbearable.

-oOo-

Once inside, the counselor that had walked me to the school from the playground led me to sit at one of the tables in the cafeteria where we spent most of our time. After a few minutes, the head counselor came over with an ice pack wrapped in a purple flower baby blanket that was used for the baby dolls. She had me hold the ice pack to my arm while she went to call my dad.

During the time we spent waiting, I continued to insist that my arm was broken, desperate to convince the counselors that I was right. But they just kept trying to calm me down, telling me that my arm wasn't broken.

When my dad arrived, the counselors said that I had fallen off the monkey bars and hurt my arm.

"It hurts really badly," I told him as we headed to the car.

My dad drove me to the Henry Ford Hospital, which was about a seven-minute drive away from the school. There, the doctors brought me into a dark room to get an x-ray of my arm. In the center of the room was a large table that reminded me of the ones used in meeting rooms. At the end of the table was a chair. One of the doctors had me sit in the chair while they sat in a chair that was located to my right. Above the table was a weird looking machine that hung from the ceiling.

The doctor had me place my left arm on the table as they moved the machine so that it was above me. They then used the machine to take pictures, telling me to hold my arm in different positions for each picture. One of the positions they wanted me to put my arm in was too painful for me to do, so they brought in a cube of grey foam and had me rest my arm on that, which helped a little bit.