Wednesday, 27 February 2013

Why You Should Never Agree To A Dare

When I was three years old, The Mothership had an unfortunate accident on Christmas Day. Twenty two years on; I am still living with the consequences.

His name is Breon. He has caused me nothing but trouble from the moment he clawed his way out of the womb. As he says, he's seen a vagina once in his entire life, on the way out, and that was so traumatic he never wants to see another one.

The Mothership trained me night and day to be this small, screaming, infernal being's personal bodyguard. I was reminded daily of the fact that it was MY job to look after him at Nursery, School, Cubs, Scouts, Sainsbury's, the swimming pool, the park, the car... Anywhere she could think of.

As a small child, this was a HUGE amount of responsibility, and I was constantly living in fear - if anything happened to him, it was MY fault, because I was supposed to be looking after him.

When he irritated me, I couldn't even do anything about it, as I was older and therefore "should know better". Naturally this meant that my sibling got his own way most of the time.

I am very well known for the few times I have lost my temper. It takes one HELL of a lot to cause me to lose it, but when I do, I am terrifying, even to myself. This system seems to have developed as a method of looking after my brother. I knew that I was not big enough, tough enough or normal-hair-coloured enough to be able to fight off my own bullies - let alone my brothers, so the only other option I had was to be the scariest, most crazy person out there, so that people would think twice about picking on him in case they incur the insanity of his Big Sister as payment for their crimes. I got into numerous fights on his behalf through, and occasionally still do - it's my job.

This attitude has spread to include everyone else close to me. I will dive head first into any fight in order to protect my friends and family, without a second thought. Even if that means that I'm getting into a fight with 5 guys, including one with a machete. In fact, I am FAR more likely to get into a fight with someone if they are brandishing a machete at one of my friends, as the aim is not to keep MYSELF safe, it is to keep my friend safe. My survival instinct is a little… off.

So, apart from causing me to grow up with a lack of self-preservation and a huge and probably unhealthy amount of selfless-ness, my little brother has been the cause behind most of my physical scars, with a bit of help from my God Mother's son.

When I was about 13 we went on holiday in Cornwall. I always loved our holidays, as they usually fell on my birthday.

This year was no different, and we were due to be spending my birthday on Land's End.

A few days before my birthday we had stopped in a campsite in Looe (insert toilet joke here). It had a massive great hill running down the middle of it, which looked deceptively gentle. The campsite had a playground (that I really wanted to go on but was "too old/cool" to stoop to those levels) and a clubhouse.

That night we made our way down to the clubhouse, where they were having a bingo night. The prize for shouting bingo was a brand new, gleaming fold-up micro scooter. There were two of them, and I had desperately wanted one for a while.

The first round began, and as usual, by the end of it I was frustrated and annoyed with my inability to win anything, ever. My God Mother's son, swooped up the prize, and in a moment of genius, I gave my second card to him to play for me.

He won. I got this amazing scooter that I was simply overjoyed about, and was immediately told by the Mothership that I was not to play on it until the next morning.

I woke up stupidly early the next day, with the sole aim of riding my new scooter all over the caravan park and irritating the crap out of every fellow camper. Feeling a bit sorry for my brother, I allowed him to ride it whilst I went and brushed my teeth and showered, also ensuring that our neighbours didn’t get a moment’s peace.

When I returned, Breon was flushed and excited, demanding that I rode down the hill in the centre of the park. I was a tad nervous about this, as the deceptively gentle slope went on for a long way, but I had been dared to do it. When a younger sibling dares you to do something, you have to do it. It's the law. You mustn't lose face in front of them or you will never live it down, and forty years on you would still be living with the ridicule of having backed out of a Dare. So I pushed off, the scooter increasing in speed rapidly as I flew down the hill. About half way down I decided to try and slow down a bit before I went out of control.

It was then that I realised - I had NO IDEA where the brakes were. The scooter hurtled down the hill, with me clutching the handle bar and praying to every deity I could think of, hoping that one of them was paying attention to a small ginger teen travelling at the speed of light on the back of a micro scooter in Cornwall.

The road - and the hill - came to an abrupt stop at the bottom. The scooter hit the curb and I was airborne for what felt like forever, before I hit the ground with a thud. I looked up, jubilantly thinking that I had escaped unscathed and full of adrenaline.

That was when I looked down at my hand. It was hanging off at a 90 degree angle, anti-clockwise. I took a second to think, “That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen" before realising how much it hurt. It was a bit like being hit by a lorry. One of the big ones too. Going at around 80mph.

I don't really remember much after that, I remember walking to a surgery as there were almost NO hospitals in Cornwall. Apparently they believe in witchcraft down there or something, and “doctorin’ be witchin’”.

I also remember my Godmothers son sticking his head out of the window for the entire journey in case he threw up after seeing my arm. Before this incident he had considered becoming a doctor, but that went right out of the window – literally.

The first stop was at a doctor’s surgery in the nearest town. They sent us away before they even looked at me. Then we went to a Hospital about 10 miles away, where they gave me a lot of drugs (Gas and Air is still the best thing I've ever had) before piling me into an Ambulance and sending me off to the next hospital, Plymouth, as they did not have a surgeon who was capable of dealing with an injury as severe as mine was. Apparently my stay in this hospital was a lot longer than I remember, but I was completely off my face on drugs.

I had lost all track of time by this point, and a lot of my memories are hazy and drug ridden. One of the last things I remember before I was put under was the man explaining that I may have to have my hand amputated. It had been broken and dislocated, badly.

When I came round, apparently I was babbling nonsense and laughing hysterically. All I remember was not having a clue where I was, who the people around me were and, most importantly, where my mum was. I must have passed out again as I don't know how I got to my ward. Nor do I remember waking up again. It's like one minute I was out cold, the next conscious and functioning.

I had two pins put in my wrist. When the doctor came round he told me that I MAY have broken the growth plate, and if I had my arm and hand would not continue to grow like a normal person’s. I would have a real life "strong hand", รก la “Scary Movie”.

I had to stay overnight, and after an incident the next morning involving some toast, butter and a very angry nurse, I was eventually let loose on Cornwall.

I was completely unable to function with only one hand. And what’s more, I kept forgetting that it was in a cast. I would reach out to grab something from the table and knock everything flying. I’d go to scratch my face and give myself a black eye. I’d roll over in my sleeping bag and give my brother concussion, despite the fact that he was in the next compartment along… Well, you guys know how clumsy I am – now replace my hand with what was, to all intents and purposes, a hammer. It was a DISASTER.

Eventually I was back at home, and in the hospital to get my cast and pins removed. I have never been as sickened by any sensation as I was by the feeling of the pins being pulled out of my arm. I nearly passed out, threw up and punched the doctor removing them all in one go. It was vile. On the plus side, I have two pretty awesome scars on my wrist showing where they were.

By this point I had gotten used to the cast, so once again I was transformed into a lumbering oaf as I tried to readjust to not having it on, misjudging distances, smacking myself in the face - the usual.
Personally, I think I still haven’t adjusted to it not being there. That’s why I’m so clumsy.

To this day my wrist gets stiff in the cold, and makes strange clicks and crunches; but, you’ll be glad to know, I don’t have a dodgy hand.

No thanks to my little brother.

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