I have many fond memories of being on stage.
There was doing the can-can during rehearsals for“Into the Woods.” Or creating the world’s most annoying laugh for the spring melodrama my senior year at Chandler High School. (Shout-out to Mrs. Jones!)
The opening of “Route 66” this past weekend brought many of these memories back, though none more so than my first play at college. You see, this was the show where I became a liability.
Itwasthefallofmyfreshman year at JBU, and I had joined the cast of “On the Night of January 16th” by Ayn Rand. It was a courtroom drama with audience participation -- every show we randomly selected 12 people to serve as the jury. I played Bailiff #1 -- an important role, as I shouted “All rise!” and helped get the jury on and off the stage with my fellow Bailiff #2.
It was our Midnight Madness show -- a hallowed tradition in the small theatre department. Every year, it sold out. This night was no different, and every actor on stage was hopped up on adrenaline from the packed crowd.
Including the burly baseball player who portrayed “Guts” Regan.
At the end of Act 2, Guts rushes on stage from the audience, and the other bailiff and I have to restrain him. It’s a very dramatic moment.This night, he was on fire, hitting all his marks.
Perhaps a little too much so. He flung my left hand off his arm, not realizing how close we were to the judge’s stand. It smashed into the edge and went numb.Irememberthinking this was odd, but brushed it off as I went to grab Guts again. This time, pain sliced up my hand, and I nearly shrieked. Somehow, I kept it together until I waited for the jury to exit the stage. Once backstage, I collapsed in the hallway, saying my hand felt weird. Guts had rushed around from the opposite side of backstage, knowing that something was wrong. My hand wasn’t swollen, and nothing appeared broken, so we wrapped duct tape around my fingers, I took three ibuprofen, and back out I went for Act 3.
It was very late when I stumbled back to my dorm room, but I needed to get to Walmart to get painkillers and other supplies. My roommate, a pre-med major, refused to drive me, saying I was being overdramatic -- my hand clearly wasn’t broken. Eventually, I convinced my boyfriend to take me.
I went to bed that night with an ice pack on my hand, fully intending to take part in the next day’s matinee. It wasn’t like it hurt that badly.
The next morning at warm-ups, when we removed the ice pack, my hand was the size of a grapefruit. I was immediately ordered to go to the ER.
After -- once again findingsomeonewhocould drive me, off I went. It was pretty dead, yet we waited a fair bit before I finally went back for an X-ray. I was still not completely convinced I had broken anything. I had never broken a bone before and thought surely I’d be in more pain.
I was completely wrong. A doctor showed up and informed me that my third metacarpal was partially shattered. As such, I may need pins and couldn’t get a cast until I saw an ortho surgeon on Monday morning. They put me in a splint and a sling, then sent me on my way with a prescription forVicodin that we filled on our way back to campus.
We returned just in time for the end of the matinee. I stood at the back of the theatre, waiting until it was over to fill in my advisor and the rest of the cast. I wasn’t expecting the student director -- who filled in for me -- to direct applause my way, stating how I bravely continued on the night before despite being injured. I stood there with wide eyes and sheepishly wavedattheaudience, the large manila envelope still in my free hand. Once I showed off my X-rays, I went back to my dorm. Just in time to run into my roommate.
I’m not usually a petty person, but I did have a little prick of enjoyment as I informed her that not only was my hand broken, but it was partially shattered and I may need surgery, before offering to show her my Xrays. Needless to say, she didn’t say anything more about me being a baby.
I then went to lunch and took one of the Vicodins -- the first time I had ever tried the medication. And well… that, my friends, is a whole other story that we’ll get to next week. Needless to say, this situation was the first -- and last -- time I ever took Vicodin.