Four years ago on a warm June morning, I had just finished volunteering as a paddle boarder keeping swimmers in check during the Couer d’Alene Ironman, a race I had completed a couple of times myself. Skirting along the shore heading towards where my car was parked, my fit caught a rock and I was thrown off into the shallow water.
Only about three feet deep, there wasn’t enough water to slow my fall; I landed on my wrists and holy shit that hurt. Thinking it was just a bad sprain I iced it and touched it out for a few weeks. It got better and soon enough I was back to cycling and climbing and normal life.
But then after a few years, the pain came back with vengeance.
Again, I just dealt with it for awhile until riding my bike became too much. A nasty wreck on a gravel road because I was riding one-handed sealed the deal: I was no longer bike worthy and it was time to figure this thing out.
Turns out, that paddle board fall a few years back both broke my wrist and blew up a tendon in my hand. The tendon keeps some of the wrist bones, which kind of float in space, lined up and functioning. Mine had moved all around and were no longer useful. Wrist reconstruction was needed to remove those three bones and rebuild the joint with a different bone.
Lesson: go to the fucking doctor if you think you’re injured.
