What It’s Like When You Break a Rib

I now know firsthand what it’s like if you break one of your ribs. Also, whether your rib is broken or cracked, it’s the same thing. One side of what should be a continuous bone is completely separated from the other side, with a gap in between. In my case, said parted bone is in back of me on my left side. (Please read all of this, because there’s a purpose!)

We’ve all seen on T.V. and in the movies how the male hero has a broken rib, is lying on a bed and cuddles up with his girl. White teeth flashing, he’ll gallantly smile and tell her he has to take it easy, and then he’ll pull her closer. Well, let me tell you, that ain’t easy! First of all, you have to ease your body down onto the bed, then ease it under the sheets, and then ease it into a comfortable position. Once there, if you want to change positions, that becomes a matter of trial and error.

One false move and the two halves of bone shift, a shot of pain surges through that area, you make an involuntary gasp and have to try and catch your breath. But once that pain eases, you’re fine.

You soon learn a method for maneuvering your body. If the break is on your left side, don’t reach for things with your left hand. (Note to self: Tomorrow, when you bend down to get the newspaper, remember to reach for it with your right hand, dummy! You know mornings are the worst!) Don’t open or close any doors with your left hand either. Getting dressed and undressed takes a bit of patience, and you’ll have to work on the best way to get in and out of a car. For sure, the body fares much better if you sit upright instead of reclining on a couch.

Performing normal bodily functions is another obstacle to surmount. I can’t sneeze, blow my nose, clear my throat, take a deep breath, laugh normally or do anything that’s going to make my lungs expand, but if I can do these things gently, all I’ll feel is a twinge.

Other than that, I can cook, bake, type, almost anything I normally would do, as long as I’m careful how I position myself. (This really increases one’s self-awareness!) The only thing the doctor forbids is doing any exercises. But I know I’m healing quickly, because each day my mobility and lack of pain increases, and I’m doing things I couldn’t do before. (It’s just trying to change positions in bed that’s a real killer.)

It happened Wed., March 1, when I was in the attic trying to reach an overnight bag because we were going out of town. There was no way to get to the bag, so I straddled my legs above the top of each side of the attic stairs, and using a mop handle, hooked the handle of the bag and pulled it towards me. I’ve done this before, but this time I was only wearing socks. One foot slipped, and when I went down, I slammed my back against the abutment I had been standing on. I went to the clinic several days later, when we returned home.

At this point I must apologize for not having written anything here for so long, but my mother had been admitted to a hospital several weeks ago, and every day had become an extreme up and down for her. I was getting and making a slew of long distance calls daily, both at home and at work, also because the doctors urged that I make arrangements for her funeral. They knew it was inevitable, and eventually it happened.

All the people who advised and supported me were wonderful, as was everyone who helped my mother to the end. As for the eulogy and service, they were beautiful—a true dedication to her. Through my blogging, I have made some dear new friends, and I cherish that relationship. Therefore, it feels only befitting that I draw on their gift of friendship to dedicate this post to my mother, Florence, May 28, 1916-Feb. 27, 2006.