Broken appendages cause bonding

By CAT MOONEY

del.ico.us | digg it! | reddit!

print | email | 1 Comments

I knew something had changed when I got off the #90 bus and a near-shirtless man on a bike bellowed, "Do you have a Sharpie? Can I be the first to sign?" He whizzed by, his tiny plaid shirt unbuttoned and flapping in the wind like a cape. I was suspicious of why a stranger would talk to me in a city where people usually keep to themselves, but I knew he must be referring to me and my pink cast, which had been on my then-fractured wrist for less than an hour. I said I was "all set," but mentally flicked him off and shouted that I don't carry a marker in my back pocket.

I didn't realize that his enthusiasm was just the beginning of a slew of random conversations. I broke my arm as a child, but I was surprised to find that this time around, people approached me in every situation imaginable. They wanted to know about my cast, how it happened, if I was OK or in any pain, asking about my health and progress like we went way back.

Everyone looks at children with casts and thinks nothing of it—because they are young and jump and fall all the time, they are supposed to break things. Adults, on the other hand, are not. If you see an adult walking around with a broken ankle or arm, you naturally stare and think, "What did they do?" Even with my wrist now healed, I catch myself gaping at mature, wounded limbs like they're oddities. Where does this curiosity come from? Why do teenagers at Blockbuster find such injuries really cool? Why do cashier personnel, who usually say nothing, become animated when they realize you have a cast on?

It wasn't just the variety of people who spoke to me that struck me as strange, but their willingness and eagerness to both hear my story and share their own. One man always wanted to break a bone as a kid, but he thought it would be a hassle now (the glamour had faded). A woman explained that an EMT diagnosed her with a broken hand after a car accident, but she never sought proper medical attention. Others merely yelled and asked what happened in frequent and loud tones like they were my great-aunt at a family function.

Strangers found me accessible because I was broken and vulnerable. They found me more relatable and wanted to share their broken pasts. The reality is that people of all ages break and injure themselves. I learned this first-hand going to physical therapy (where I even saw Mayor Menino working out). If you look closely, you can see air casts peeping out from jeans and work suits on the T, or splints hiding in sleeves at checkout lines. It is about taking the time to notice, which I guess is what people did with me. Who knew something common—and pink—could make it OK to reach out, and could bring strangers together in a city that never talks?

Illustration by Alexandra Charrow