Why I'm bionic

It was good for a column about 16 months ago when I had a very scary operation where several inches of my upper right arm bone were sawed off and replaced by a metal rod with a knob on the end and sewn into a new shoulder socket. It was the end of many years of pain and it really worked. Not a drop of pain since. It would take a book to give details of broken bones in my life career, but following is a rundown up to 1984:

With over 30 certified broken bones to my credit, this writer is no stranger to physical pain and temporary impairment. Those many past fractures, as well as other equally unwelcome dents in my carcass, often find their way to these columns because they have been an integral part of my life. They have profoundly affected my career... often for the better, and that’s what has me concerned right now.

It was a minor skull fracture, crushed chest, and broken left hind leg received in a parachute jump which brought the wandering boy back home to Kalispell in the ‘50s to sponge off the parents; but which also got me out of “the dangerous world” and happily into radio announcing.

There was a calcified hematoma inflicted by a vicious tackle which dinged me off the 1947 EUCOM football team in occupied Germany, and right into a fascinating job as Battalion Venereal Disease Prevention Information NCO.

One whole year-- 1937-— with a shattered right arm trussed up in a steel traction frame, changed me from a ne’er-do-well third grade marble shark and rabbit trapper into a studious bookworm. I can never thank the truck that hit me enough.

It was a matched pair of gift wrapped but badly broken metatarsal arches which dropped me out of the gung-ho army airborne, and into cushy desk duty with the Signal Corps.

Sitting here tonight with an ice pack on my right elbow has afforded more than adequate time and inspiration for contemplating all those “lucky breaks,” with which I’ve been blessed.

This latest blessing began during my first June hike with the TOHUPS (Thursday Over the Hill Uphill Society). We climbed to Firebrand Pass and Bear Head Mountain where I used my right arm to swing an ice ax quite a bit, and a resulting sore elbow got worse the following Sunday after 36 holes of golf. This included one powerful, but painful, stroke which struck the sod a foot behind the ball.

Unless there is severe bleeding or bone extruding through the skin, I usually shave a few bucks off the doctor bill by doing my own initial diagnostics. After correctly guessing “tennis elbow” on this one, I went down to Stoick Drug and purchased an elastic joint bandage and a forearm muscle splint. That seemed to help a mite, but this last Sunday things went from worse to terrible.

Sure! I had this feeling that exposing my arm to strenuous strain could be risky. But, knowing how badly my family needed fresh trout for the sustenance of their bodies, I volunteered to vigorously cast dry flies across the water while son Shannon passed me an occasional 12 ounce can of pain killer and steered our rubber raft down the North Fork river. Monday morning I had to brush the pearlies and shave with my left hand.

Monday afternoon Doc Gould said I had to use ice packs, take some pills, and report back on Friday. If my “epicondolitis” isn’t better then, we are talking shots... to relieve “severe inflamation,” not to mention pain. As I left the office, I turned and hopefully asked, “Can I still go golfing this week?”

“Not” he said, “Absolutely not.” He also diplomatically suggested that I should do some adjusting in my lifestyle which would reflect and acknowledge the fact that I am no longer 25 years old.

What doc Gould probably doesn’t understand is that oft proven history is on my side. The kindly fates will not desert me now and good can once again come from my suffering. For the very first time in my golfing career I will absolutely have to let the left hand and arm do the work, like the pros tell us to do. This should easily knock 12 or 15 strokes off my handicap.

I can’t help but wonder how the local low shooters are going to react to being beaten in the Labor Day tournament by a 56-year-old guy with epicondolitis.

G. George Ostrom is an award-winning columnist. He lives in Kalispell.