I’d just turned 33 years young earlier that week on January 19.  As the birthday wishes poured in via phone, text, email and facebook wall messages, they all served as constant reminders as to how old I really was.  Thirty-f’n-three!  I was halfway to collecting Social Security!  Remarkably, I didn’t feel a day over twenty-three.  I was exercising regularly and playing indoor soccer once a week; I’d never so much as broken a bone in my body.  So how did this injury find me?  Me - of all people?!  

The injury occurred on a Friday night.  It’s probably the absolute worst time to happen.  No orthopedic surgeon’s office is open on the weekend, and I wasn’t about to check into an emergency room.  I had no other option but to just pop Advil like candy and R.I.C.E. it til I could get an appointment to see the doctor on Monday.  

I woke up Saturday morning with less pain than Friday night, so that was somewhat encouraging.  Getting to bed was difficult because the pain was still throbbing.  I would literally count down the hours til I could safely take my next dose of Advil.  

Sunday morning’s pain was nearly as bad as Friday night.  I was growing more and more disheartened as time went on and yearned for a conclusive diagnosis.  I called around on Monday morning for an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon.  Luckily, I found one who’d see me later that afternoon.   

I gradually started telling friends and family what had happened, describing the circumstances surrounding the injury, but not quite certain the extent to which I’d been injured.  People assured me that I’d recover quickly, given the fact that I was young and in relative good health.  Ironically, these same people callously reminded me of how OLD I was not even a week ago!  Funny how that worked out…

So it turns out I turned 33-years old earlier that week on January 19.  Happy f’n birthday, Eric.