What Scares Author Steven R Drennon
Summary: What Scares Author series #8, learn in his own words what scares author Steven R. Drennon.
I was lying on a gurney in the emergency room after having been brought in with a broken ankle I obtained in a recreational league softball game. Most people have settled into a casual lifestyle with moderate to no exercise by the time they turn fifty, which I was set to do in about a year. As for me, I was still playing in a competitive league and was easily ten to twelve years older than anyone else on my team.
Okay, so the broken ankle should have been a sign that it was time to hang up the cleats, but it was a fluke accident that caused me to be here. There was a lot of sand on the first base bag, so when I planted my foot and turned towards second for what was certain to be my second double of the game, my foot slid across the bag, planted in the dirt, and then snapped. I didn't feel any pain really, I just fell to the ground and realized that my foot wasn't moving. I was still three feet away from the bag, so I crawled back to put my hand on the bag and then asked for a timeout. Only then did I realize that my foot was almost backwards!
Fortunately, I must have gone into shock right away, because as I mentioned, I didn't feel any pain. The recreation staff called for an ambulance, the paramedics gave me morphine right away, and then they hauled me to the hospital. Did I mention I hate hospitals? I've always made a point of taking really good care of myself so that I wouldn't ever have to be in one, but now here I was, waiting to be seen by an ER doctor who would try to reset my foot before putting it in a temporary cast and referring me to an orthopedic specialist for surgery.
My disdain for hospitals doesn't just apply to me being in one, but also to simply visiting people there. I've always been the kind of person who likes to take charge of a situation and try to find a solution. In a hospital, I can't do that. I feel helpless, ineffective. I feel inadequate. I feel like I need to get the hell out of there.
When family or friends have been hospitalized, I usually make a brief appearance, but I'm always looking at the clock to make sure I don't stay too long. I had never been a patient before now, and I sure as hell didn't want to stay if it wasn't necessary for me to do so. Now, it was most definitely necessary.
As I got processed through the ER, I found myself relaxing and just going with the flow. I knew there wasn't anything I could do, so I just let the medical professionals do their job and trusted them to take care of me. I decided later that the morphine probably did a lot to ease my discomfort, not only from the pain in my foot, but also from the anxiety of being in this most dreaded of all places.
When I finally got a chance to see the doctor, he did the cursory review of my foot and told me what I already knew: your foot is dislocated, and there's a good chance that the lower part of the leg bone was broken. They would send me to get x-rays which I could take to the specialist who would schedule my surgery. After that, he did a regular review of my general condition. He checked my pulse, listened to my heart, and then had me sit up so that he could listen to my lungs. As I leaned forward, the doctor commented, "39. Why 39?"
I knew right away that he was referring to my uniform number, the same number I had worn for almost thirty years. As I leaned back down onto the gurney, I explained, "My father died when he was 39 years old. Ever since then, I've worn the number 39 to remind me that my life is precious, and if I wanted to live beyond that age, then it was up to me to make it happen."
The doctor smiled and said, "So how old are you?"
I looked up at him and said, "Guess!"
He got a serious look on his face and raised one eyebrow before answering, "43".
I laughed slightly as I told him, "Actually, I'm almost 49!"
The doctor crossed his arms and smiled at me and said, "Well if all my 49 year old patients took care of themselves as well as you do, I'd have a lot fewer 49 year old patients!"
We both laughed, and then the doctor turned my chart over to a nurse and asked her to take me down to the x-ray department. As he turned to leave the exam room, I asked him, "So doc, once I've had the surgery and everything, how long do you think it will take me to get back on my feet again?"
He stopped and looked back, his face much more serious now. "You're looking at a good six weeks before you get off crutches. Even then, you may never be able to walk without a limp. Your break is pretty nasty, and if any of the ligaments are torn, you could be looking at a lot longer."
I laid my head back and made a decision right there that I wasn't going to accept his answer. My team was a lock to win the league, and we were going to be playing in the playoffs in six weeks. I had every intention of playing in that championship game.
I never saw that doctor again, so I never got the chance to tell him that the orthopedic specialist said the same thing he had told me. I also never got the chance to tell him that six weeks later, the specialist told me I could remove my walking cast and resume normal activity. I also never got the chance to tell him that I ended up playing only one more game that softball season, and it was the championship game. I was the starting pitcher, and my team won by six runs. A week later I went on a fifteen mile hike with my son and his Boy Scout troop.
It's been three years since I broke my ankle, and I have broken that magical 50 barrier. Since then my softball team has won three more championships, with me pitching, and I have gone on dozens of hikes with my son and his Boy Scout troop. I still wear the number 39 on my jersey, and now I have a nice, long scar on my ankle. When I look at it, I see yet another reminder that it is up to me to make things happen.
About The Author
Steven R. Drennon is the author of two fantasy novels: "Rise of the Raven" and "Three for Avadar". In addition to this, he has published six volumes of poetry and two poetry anthologies. You can read more about him and his works by visiting his blog, where he regularly interviews other indie writers as well as provide book samples and reviews: http://www.drennon.com
About Three for Avadar
A princess trying to find her way back home, while finding herself along the way.
A sorceress trying to retrieve a sacred crystal that was secreted away by her father before he was murdered.
A warrior seeking to avenge the death of his family, who finds himself sidelined by two very different, yet very attractive women.
Three separate travelers drawn together by chance, all destined for one place...Avadar!
Buy Three for Avadar at Amazon.
Thanks Steven for being #8 in the ongoing What Scares Authors series. Read what scares other authors:
Heather Marie Adkins, Sue Owen, Laura Yirak, Arshad Ahsanuddin, Jean Marie Bauhaus, Gayle Carline, David Gaughran.
I was lying on a gurney in the emergency room after having been brought in with a broken ankle I obtained in a recreational league softball game. Most people have settled into a casual lifestyle with moderate to no exercise by the time they turn fifty, which I was set to do in about a year. As for me, I was still playing in a competitive league and was easily ten to twelve years older than anyone else on my team.
Okay, so the broken ankle should have been a sign that it was time to hang up the cleats, but it was a fluke accident that caused me to be here. There was a lot of sand on the first base bag, so when I planted my foot and turned towards second for what was certain to be my second double of the game, my foot slid across the bag, planted in the dirt, and then snapped. I didn't feel any pain really, I just fell to the ground and realized that my foot wasn't moving. I was still three feet away from the bag, so I crawled back to put my hand on the bag and then asked for a timeout. Only then did I realize that my foot was almost backwards!
Fortunately, I must have gone into shock right away, because as I mentioned, I didn't feel any pain. The recreation staff called for an ambulance, the paramedics gave me morphine right away, and then they hauled me to the hospital. Did I mention I hate hospitals? I've always made a point of taking really good care of myself so that I wouldn't ever have to be in one, but now here I was, waiting to be seen by an ER doctor who would try to reset my foot before putting it in a temporary cast and referring me to an orthopedic specialist for surgery.
My disdain for hospitals doesn't just apply to me being in one, but also to simply visiting people there. I've always been the kind of person who likes to take charge of a situation and try to find a solution. In a hospital, I can't do that. I feel helpless, ineffective. I feel inadequate. I feel like I need to get the hell out of there.
When family or friends have been hospitalized, I usually make a brief appearance, but I'm always looking at the clock to make sure I don't stay too long. I had never been a patient before now, and I sure as hell didn't want to stay if it wasn't necessary for me to do so. Now, it was most definitely necessary.
As I got processed through the ER, I found myself relaxing and just going with the flow. I knew there wasn't anything I could do, so I just let the medical professionals do their job and trusted them to take care of me. I decided later that the morphine probably did a lot to ease my discomfort, not only from the pain in my foot, but also from the anxiety of being in this most dreaded of all places.
When I finally got a chance to see the doctor, he did the cursory review of my foot and told me what I already knew: your foot is dislocated, and there's a good chance that the lower part of the leg bone was broken. They would send me to get x-rays which I could take to the specialist who would schedule my surgery. After that, he did a regular review of my general condition. He checked my pulse, listened to my heart, and then had me sit up so that he could listen to my lungs. As I leaned forward, the doctor commented, "39. Why 39?"
I knew right away that he was referring to my uniform number, the same number I had worn for almost thirty years. As I leaned back down onto the gurney, I explained, "My father died when he was 39 years old. Ever since then, I've worn the number 39 to remind me that my life is precious, and if I wanted to live beyond that age, then it was up to me to make it happen."The doctor smiled and said, "So how old are you?"
I looked up at him and said, "Guess!"
He got a serious look on his face and raised one eyebrow before answering, "43".
I laughed slightly as I told him, "Actually, I'm almost 49!"
The doctor crossed his arms and smiled at me and said, "Well if all my 49 year old patients took care of themselves as well as you do, I'd have a lot fewer 49 year old patients!"
We both laughed, and then the doctor turned my chart over to a nurse and asked her to take me down to the x-ray department. As he turned to leave the exam room, I asked him, "So doc, once I've had the surgery and everything, how long do you think it will take me to get back on my feet again?"
He stopped and looked back, his face much more serious now. "You're looking at a good six weeks before you get off crutches. Even then, you may never be able to walk without a limp. Your break is pretty nasty, and if any of the ligaments are torn, you could be looking at a lot longer."
I laid my head back and made a decision right there that I wasn't going to accept his answer. My team was a lock to win the league, and we were going to be playing in the playoffs in six weeks. I had every intention of playing in that championship game.
I never saw that doctor again, so I never got the chance to tell him that the orthopedic specialist said the same thing he had told me. I also never got the chance to tell him that six weeks later, the specialist told me I could remove my walking cast and resume normal activity. I also never got the chance to tell him that I ended up playing only one more game that softball season, and it was the championship game. I was the starting pitcher, and my team won by six runs. A week later I went on a fifteen mile hike with my son and his Boy Scout troop.
It's been three years since I broke my ankle, and I have broken that magical 50 barrier. Since then my softball team has won three more championships, with me pitching, and I have gone on dozens of hikes with my son and his Boy Scout troop. I still wear the number 39 on my jersey, and now I have a nice, long scar on my ankle. When I look at it, I see yet another reminder that it is up to me to make things happen.
About The Author
Steven R. Drennon is the author of two fantasy novels: "Rise of the Raven" and "Three for Avadar". In addition to this, he has published six volumes of poetry and two poetry anthologies. You can read more about him and his works by visiting his blog, where he regularly interviews other indie writers as well as provide book samples and reviews: http://www.drennon.com
About Three for Avadar
A princess trying to find her way back home, while finding herself along the way.
A sorceress trying to retrieve a sacred crystal that was secreted away by her father before he was murdered.
A warrior seeking to avenge the death of his family, who finds himself sidelined by two very different, yet very attractive women.
Three separate travelers drawn together by chance, all destined for one place...Avadar!
Buy Three for Avadar at Amazon.
Thanks Steven for being #8 in the ongoing What Scares Authors series. Read what scares other authors:
Heather Marie Adkins, Sue Owen, Laura Yirak, Arshad Ahsanuddin, Jean Marie Bauhaus, Gayle Carline, David Gaughran.
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