Happy Hall-OW-ween

, , , , , | Healthy | October 30, 2020

When I am in third grade, the day before Halloween, I trip at a friend’s house and break my right pinkie finger. Mom takes me to the local children’s hospital, I get X-rays and a half-cast, and life continues.

Exactly one year later, I trip at school and fracture three fingers on my left hand. My mother takes me to the same hospital, but the hairline fractures are nearly invisible, and the nurses wrap my hand and send me home. I try to argue that they are broken, and I know what it feels like, but only my mom believes me.

Three hours later, the hospital calls.

Employee: “Um, please bring her back in. Another doctor read the X-ray and her fingers are broken. Can you believe it? She needs a cast.”

But the true moment of hilarity was the poor insurance agent who handled the second claim. She spent a half-hour on the phone with my mom trying to sort out why there were two claims for broken fingers, filed on October 30, one year apart. I think she was expecting a prank or a misfile. My mom ended up asking questions like, “How many fingers does it say?” and, “Which hand is that for?”

I’m pretty sure it ended up as a write-off, because my mom only spoke with them once and we never heard about those claims again.

And yes, there were many jokes about one-upping myself for years after. I did end up getting a different finger caught in a car door later, but that’s another story.

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