Medical Procedures for Dummies

My softball game last week was very strange.

That’s a horrible opening! The game wasn’t strange–it was a softball game. Strange is a 280-pound linebacker singing Ashlee Simpson songs in a mall while wearing a tutu. The game was noteworthy–but certainly not strange.

The biggest (and most noteworthy) event occurred when one of our players dislocated his shoulder while jogging around the second base. Mr. Fudge slipped for no obvious or apparent reason and landed awkwardly on his left shoulder. Everyone knew he was hurt bad immediately after it happened because quickly took himself out of the game. He walked back to our dugout and was in obvious pain; his face was trembling and he grimaced with every breath. “Does anyone know how to pop it back in,” Fudge asked.

Half the team told him to let a doctor do it; the other half was in shocked by the repulsiveness of the question (that sorta bravado is reserved for fictionalized action movies–not overweight, outta shape schleps who play softball). “No way,” someone said. Another person called him nuts. Someone else asked for Dr. Nick. There were a lot of chaotic suggestions thrown out until Wagon spoke up.

“This is what you need to do,” he said. Wagon is kinda like a father figure on the team. It might have something to do with him being older than most of us. Or it might be because he’s one of the few people with a real job and a family. Wagon has been playing softball longer than any of us and began umpiring when most of us were still teenagers. On top of that, his day job is a school teacher. The point is, Wagon has more credibility than anyone else on the team and we immediately became silent as he gave Fudge medical advice.

“This is what you need to do. Let go of your arm.” Fudge had been clinging to his bad wing from the second he got up from the ground. He did as told and Wagon continued speaking. “Take a deep breath. Relax.” Fudge followed the advice and started to calm down. “Let your arm hang there as you take deep breaths. After a while, it’ll pull itself back into place.”

The team was silent for a bit while we processed Wagon’s advice. I was the first to speak. “Wagon, that’s gotta be the WORST advice I’ve ever heard. Fudge, don’t touch it and go see a doctor.” And just like that, a half-dozen other medical experts started shouting advice to our injured comrade.

Fudge did see a doctor. After being loaded up with painkillers a medical professional pop his arm back in place. He’ll be on the DL for a while and miss the rest of the season, but the good news is that he’ll live, which is probably a better prognosis than hoping it would fix itself.