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The Day I Was Destined To Fly
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TITLE (EDIT)
The Day I Was Destined To Fly
DESCRIPTION
This is the story which goes with the poem Casualty. It is an account of when I had a little biking accident.
[1,185 words]
AUTHOR
Francis James Chudley
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi my names Francis Chudley I am 15 years old and this is one of my pastimes. My favourite book is Lord of the Rings. I live in england and i'm doin my GCSE's at the moment so could I have some feedback.
[September 2002]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (2)
Casualty (Poetry) This is a poem about one of my accidents whilst biking. Enjoy. [222 words]
The Sacred Cup (Short Stories) A short story set in a magical world the story revolves around our young hero Lippin. I wont tell you anymore because it will spoil the story. I am 15 yrs. of age please give me feed back because its ... [5,513 words] [Fantasy]
The Day I Was Destined To Fly
Francis James Chudley

It was a cold, crisp, autumnal Sunday morning, and as usual I was at my grandmother’s house for roast lunch. I was feeling a bit bored so I decided to go for a ride on my bike. This was not to be just any ride mind you but a stunt session. Any fool could ride a bike along the ground but I was going to fly! I was going to build a sky-high ramp to do jumps off. I was really excited because I knew this was going to be a challenge, a chance to show off to my friends and to live on the wild side. Little did I know the event that was to happen was going to change my way of life for over half a year.

With mounting anticipation, I started building it with breezeblocks and a long plank of wood. I built it high and strong, with as much careful precision as an architect building a great monument. I was just finishing the task when wham, the breezeblock fell. Time seemed to alter and go into slow motion. Frozen to the spot like a statue, I saw it falling. I could see my hand in the way but I was too shocked to move it. I heard the impact and then suddenly I woke from my trance and I looked at the mangled stump that used to be my finger.

I knew it was serious but shock stopped me from feeling any pain. I ran to the nearest house but no one was in, a slow feeling of panic began to set in. I started shouting for help but no one heard. I ran to my Nan’s house and bursting through the door, shouted that I had hurt my finger. I headed for the bathroom and Mum and Nan came hurrying in. Mum looked at my finger and went as white as a sheet. She wrapped the finger in a tea towel and I realised that this was going to need more than a plaster and some Savalon to repair the damage. I looked in awe at the blood pumping from the ragged end of my finger but still felt nothing.

With Nan holding me tightly, I got into the car. Mum speeded through the streets like a bat out of hell towards Crewkerne Hospital. We ran inside and saw the duty doctor. He told us that this was too big a job for such a small hospital and that we were to go straight to Yeovil hospital. The words, “ The sooner you get there, the better the chance of saving his finger”, had a chilling ring. I began to panic, wishing that we were at Yeovil hospital at that very moment.

Mum had certainly taken the warning to heart. We rushed to the car and sped on to Yeovil. It seemed to take hours but actually with mum driving like David Coulthard, it was only about ten minutes. Thank God we didn’t go past any policeman, although I seem to remember the odd red light was ignored. Finally we got there. By this time my finger was causing me excruciating pain because the shock had faded and I could see the blood soaking into the dressing that Crewkerne had put on.

We screeched into the car park in a way that wouldn’t have looked out of place on The Professionals! Nan took me straight in, while Mum parked. Crewkerne hospital had already phoned ahead, so I was swept past the crowded waiting room like a celebrity, and into a cubicle. I would have enjoyed the look on the people’s faces but by now my hand was throbbing and I wanted to be sick.

Mum joined us as the doctor arrived. She was a tall, blonde South African lady. If I had to see her now I would probably have spent more time admiring her than what she did to my finger, but I was only 7. I kept asking the nurse to move out of my way so I could see what was going on.

The dressing had been removed and for the first time it became apparent that I had lost the complete top of one finger and damaged the neighbouring one. My mother by now was the colour of someone who was suffering from seasickness! The nurse showed her to a chair where she could hold my other hand but not see what was going on. I wondered how someone who was a Biology teacher and did dissections could suddenly be so squeamish.

The doctor was very gentle and took great trouble to explain what she was doing. I felt more relaxed as I knew I could trust her. The worst bit of the whole proceedings was when she did something called a “ring block”. She explained that there were three nerves going up each finger and that she had to give each one a “ tiny little prick with the needle, to make it go to sleep”. Talk about understatements! Her idea of a tiny little prick and mine are not one and the same. The needle stung with all the savagery of three very annoyed hornets. It brought tears to my eyes but just as I felt I was ready to call it quits, my finger began to tingle, then went numb.

What followed looked more like a commercial for household cleaning products than a hospital procedure. First my finger was soaked in a bowl with something that my Nan identified as Lux Soap flakes! Then the doctor took a new toothbrush and meticulously began removing every bit of grit and grime from my chewed flesh.
I was fascinated as she pieced together bits of my finger as if it were an intricate model. I wasn’t aware of time passing but I later found out that she took over two hours. I was aware however that the injections were beginning to wear off and I could feel the very unpleasant sensation of the bristles rasping on my flesh. Just as I felt I could bear it no more, the doctor stopped and told the nurse to dress it. More injections followed for Tetanus and an antibiotic before we were allowed to leave the hospital.

It was to be the first of many visits, for daily checks, injection, removal of flesh that had died and gone bad and redressing. Only the tense look on my mother’s face told me something was wrong. I didn’t understand the words gangrene and amputate. All I know was that the top part of my finger that the doctor had so carefully pieced together had to be cut off. It seemed a shame after all her hard work! Still it saved my hand I’m told and apart from being a little shorter than the one on the other hand, no one would ever know.

 It certainly hasn’t stopped my love of dangerous sports and in a way I did get to fly that day, sitting in the back of the car with my mum hurtling it through the streets like a rocket, towards the hospital.

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2002 Francis James Chudley
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
September 2002
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1672
 

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