The first time I broke my right arm I was 5 years old, and it was the most painful.
It was also the first time I saw my mother cry
The doctor had been clear: a “bone cyst” in the right humerus, a kind of “hole” in the middle of the bone, no known cure or therapy and no known triggering cause; basically they knew nothing about it….it just happened, luckily rarely.
In a child my age, that thing with a strange name was bound to undermine the growth of the bone, and by extension the whole skeleton, the whole body, “inevitably,” the doctor added.
The doctor also said that soon the arm bone would “wear away” and it would be inevitable to replace it with a metal prosthesis, to be changed with periodic surgeries because of the body’s growth, “provided, of course, that development doesn’t stop completely,” the doctor added.
(what I still wonder today is why the doctor’s tone clearly sounded like a scolding—at me?, at my mother? From his attitude it seemed we were both guilty of something, and that this was a fair divine punishment…that was probably what triggered my mother’s tears…which wouldn’t stop)
It was also the first time that, even though I was still a child, I insulted an adult, using a word whose meaning I actually didn’t know; I said something like “Mom, don’t worry, come on let’s go now, can’t you see he’s a MONA?”, I said it in front of the kind doctor, and clearly referring to him.
the scene must probably have been very funny also because of my clumsy gait, caused by the massive cast, which covered entirely not only my right arm, but also my whole chest and back; it extended like a medieval armor, from just below the neck down to the pelvic area….also my right arm was locked horizontally to the chest, bent in an “L” shape…I was supposed to keep it on for a whole month…in summer!
I discovered then that laughter is positive; among other things it has the power to stop even mothers’ tears….at least for a few moments!
I remember my relatives’ pathetic attempts to convince me to have a more “conciliatory” and “prudent” attitude; I had to stop doing everything that I enjoyed most, like diving off the dam at the highest point, collecting crabs from the nets of moored fishing boats while dodging the guard dogs (wow, what a nasty temper they had), I had to stop wandering around on the roofs of houses wedged one on top of the other; at the time I lived in Chioggia, in an area with typical buildings like you can find in Venice, the roofs were fused into one, and allowed wonderful sunset walks, obviously once I’d slipped past parental surveillance … and especially Grandma’s.
I had to give up EVERYTHING, but I didn’t listen to my parents; I knew that, inexplicably, their judgment was influenced by the MONA, while something inside me gave me the certainty that I was right, and the strength to keep being that extremely lively, resourceful and…. HAPPY kid!
But the bone broke again … and again … and again!
The fourth time I broke my arm (or maybe it was the fifth? I don’t remember exactly) the doctor examining the X-rays flinched, looked again, checked several times that they were really mine, and still couldn’t believe his eyes.
The “bone cyst,” or whatever it was, had inexplicably healed; you could still see a kind of “hole” in the bone….but it was thinning out, disappearing…..as if evaporating.
But there was more: this time the bone had snapped cleanly at a completely different point, located a few millimeters above the “cyst.”
The doctor (not the first and unforgettable one, but another of the many consulted) explained to my mother that the many breaks had inexplicably strengthened the bone, and this was shown by the fact that not only had the cyst practically vanished from the X-rays, but the bone had broken elsewhere while the “sick” area had held up.
(yes, it had been a decidedly violent impact due to my first attempts at free climbing on trees, poles and pylons, even though for obvious reasons that wasn’t the official version with my parents :-D )
The doctor also explained to my mother that EVERY TIME WE BREAK a BONE, when it heals ….. IT BECOMES STRONGER!...so in his opinion my right arm could now withstand blows that would have shattered “normal” bones, even of “Olympic” adults (I was no longer a child, but I certainly wasn’t an adult, and I’ve never been an Olympic athlete).
My mother, stammering, asked: “but then the replacement with a metal prosthesis,” and at first the doctor didn’t understand and his eyes widened, but then he burst out “WHAT (censored) PROSTHESIS, MA’AM…YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, YOUR SON HAS DEVELOPED A RIGHT ARM THAT’S PRACTICALLY INDESTRUCTIBLE”.
In essence: by the doctors’ own admission, my “reckless” behavior, completely opposite to their instructions, had produced positive effects beyond any expectation.
Note: at the last check-up, when I was already a teenager, a bored doctor (yet another one) told me that, even assuming that that “halo” still visible on the X-rays was something to worry about, for him it wasn’t possible to make any further diagnosis because of the “impressive” muscle masses all around it (exaggerated).
Only many years later did I try to imagine an alternative future in which I had followed the doctors’ instructions to the letter—what would have become of my arm?...and of my physical development?...and the answers that came to mind were anything but reassuring….
