Friday, August 20, 2010

Meet Bruisie. We're friends.

Ow.

Ow.
Take it from me, golf balls and nearby appendages do not mix.


Ow.

Ow.
Bruisie brought along a friend, Swelling Sack of Fluid. (You can't really see so well here, but my forearm was quite swollen below the elbow. It was a beneath-the-skin, hard sack of pain.)


Ow.
From here, Bruisie looks like a giant razz-berry. How cute.


Ow.
Day 2. Bruisie's new look. Kinda Goth, n'est-ce pas?


Ow.
Swelling Sack went home sometime overnight, thankfully. I won't miss the little bugger, though he did leave his little brothers Tender and Sore behind to keep Bruisie company.



Golf is a dangerous game.

We had our annual Golf Day at work yesterday. I got hit by a freak shot at the tee-off for the 3rd or 4th hole. We were playing in teams of 4, and after having made my fist non-sucky shot of the day (I made it halfway down to the hole), I retreated to the sidelines to chat with my boss while our last team player, her husband, took his shot. We were off to the side, next to our carts, and somehow Greg managed to totally mess up his tee-off, and winged the ball straight toward us at a sharp 30-40 degree angle. All I remember was him calling, "Watch out!", me turning my head to look down the fairway to see where his ball had gone (yeah, I'm a dumbass), and then WHUMP! -something hitting my arm.* And then burning. And Margo saying, "Are you OK?", and Mary getting an icepack and asking me if I wanted to sit down, which I did, and which were probably the smartest two things I did all day.

Then there was lots of phone-calling (Mary to her husband, who had driven us there and was shopping nearby, to come back to the golf course to pick me up and take me to the walk-in clinic; me to Randal to get him to go home to get the car to meet me at the clinic), driving (from Gatineau to Orleans, which is not that far but we kept hitting traffic and construction), waiting (first at the clinic, which was not taking walk-ins till 3 (thankfully it was almost 2:20 when I got there); then at home, while Randal searched for a new ice pack (he ended up giving me a Mr. Freeze); then at the X-ray clinic; then at Shoppers to get my prescriptions filled, where the pharmacy was the busiest I'd ever seen), and icing, lots and lots of icing.

Thankfully, the doctor called this morning to say the X-ray was clean and there was no sign of a break or other abnormality. I stayed home today, and the arm has gone back to almost its normal size, though I have the strangest little wound ever. Maybe I should get a tattoo?

Oh, and the (somewhat) ironic part? Because my teammate struck me instead of the fairway, and we were playing "best ball" (where you play each subsequent shot based on where the closest ball ended up) MY ball was the best one that round, and so when I insisted they keep playing without me, my teammates continued on my ball.


* My arms being crossed over my chest at the time. I don't even want to think of what might have happened if my arms had not been crossed there.

4 comments:

Mark Reynolds said...

MY ball was the best one that round, and so when I insisted they keep playing without me, my teammates continued on my ball.

I guess you performed the golf equivalent of a sacrifice bunt. Or a hockey dive in front of the puck.

By the way, I'm disappointed: how do you post a photo of a forearm that swollen and fail to make a Popeye joke?

julie said...

Well, yes. Except in both of those circumstances, the sacrifice is done on purpose.

And hmm, Popeye didn't even occur to me. Next time I grievously injure a limb, I will try to be more attuned to the necessary pop culture reference(s).

Waterlily said...

Aww... poor baby. *kisses bobo*

Waterlily said...

hasn't this bruisie healed yet? it's been six weeks...