The Trouble with Trampolines

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Back in my kindergarten years, I loved trampolines. I would jump on a trampoline at any time of the day when I wasn’t sleeping or eating. As my parents watched in stunned disbelief at my level of energy, I would always lean more into my jump and claim each leap to be higher than the last. Unbeknownst to me, however, I was slowly growing taller everyday, which presented a continuing burden for the trampoline to support and release my weight.

One Saturday, I woke up early to start the day with my trampoline. I rushed straight from my bedroom and into the living room where my favorite toy sat. Throwing any sense of caution and self control to the wind, I hurled myself towards the center of the trampoline. The last thing I saw at that moment was a spring that flew out from the center and struck my calf. It only took a few seconds for the searing pain to replace the shock, but even before that I was screaming for mom.

My dad was the first to rush into the living room. The blood streaming down my bare leg caused him to turn pale and gasp. Following after was my mom, who seemed less fazed than he. Calmly, she lifted my leg and took a few mental notes.

Much to dad’s dismay, she said that I’d need stitches. Not knowing the severity of what happened to my leg, I kept insisting on the way to the hospital that they give me a band aid instead. I was also very trusting and optimistic at that age, and had yet to be tarnished on stitches forever. So naturally I thought it wouldn’t be such a bad deal. When we arrived, the doctors took us to a plain white room with a mirrored wall with chairs and a table. When the supplies were brought in, I was lifted onto the table with my back facing up while my leg was sewn up. The stitches at the back of my calf at that time vaguely reminded me of little, black shoelaces made of wire.

After the stitches were put in, the doctors told my parents that I could bathe with the stitches in and that the injury needed as much air as possible. They finished by telling them to bring me back later and with that we went back home. To say the least, I was quite the hot topic with my sisters. The first thing they wanted to do was poke and look at the stitches. During the “recovery period” I was still just as hyperactive as ever, but the old trampoline was gone for good.
After that traumatizing experience, my little psyche couldn’t handle seeing that thing ever again. Sometime later, I was driven back to the hospital to have the stitches removed. While the procedure to put in the stitches was relatively painless, the removal process stung as the doctors tore the metal thread from my skin using a metal gripper looking device. The sensation in fact was like that of a shot. I remember after the procedure getting a sucker, Daffy Duck band aid, and tremendous applause for my courage. To this day, there’s still a dent in my skin where the spring hit in my left calf. Needless to say, I’ve also been considerably more wary of bouncing on any trampoline. I’ve also learned a valuable lesson in the value of weight estimation.





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squeaky said...
Oct. 17, 2008 at 1:01 pm
Funny story! I got stitches once, too.
 
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