I’m laying here injured. The worst of it isn’t the aches and pains. The real crime is that I did it myself.
Zach, a friend of mine, did it times three. After a late night drink with the guys, he did the right thing: he got his friend, who was sober, to drive him home. Unfortunately, Zach held on to the roof of the car as he was getting in and his friend slammed his hand hard enough to break Zach’s hand. After three days of getting used to the big purple bat that was the cast covering his hand, Zach felt strong enough to go out for a run. He ran along the railroad tracks near his house in Whittier and, in one innocent, heart healthy move, hit a spike and broke his foot. Finally taking off some time to recover, Zach was bit by a spider that blew up his uncasted arm. And so, that night, Zach sat for seven hours in the emergency room trying to find out if the bite was deadly. Though he went unseen by a doctor, after seven hours he figured that he’d live.
Zach’s injuries and mine are the worst kind because they are a result of our choices. Of course it’s easy to see what we’ve done when we are limping and achy because of it. They call these things “accidents.”