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Javelin all the way through the foot - with painful (but bloodless and sfw) pic.

http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/060925/483/94605a30a119437eae54d106aaa3330b (http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/060925/483/94605a30a119437eae54d106aaa3330b)

Remember in the 88 (?) Olympics a ref was hit by a javelin in the shoulder. Why are these guys standing on the field again?

When I was around 8, I stepped on one of those gardening tools with 3 prongs stiicking up.  I was jumping and landed on it really hard and all three prongs went through my foot.   It bled like crazy.  The handle was long so I couldn't even hop back to the house.  I screamed and the neighbour who owned the yard I was in and my aunt rushed out.  Strangely, it didn't hurt too much but when my aunt saw it, she fanted and I broke my wrist trying to stop her from falling on me. (she was very short and very round)  Luckily a doctor lived next door and he yanked that thing right out, washed it off, and wrapped it up (my foot, not the gardening tool)  and had me hopping around in no time.  Unfortunately, the wrist took months to heal.   :?

Well, you know which Aunt to have around in a crisis now. 

"Catch me.  You're pain is too much for me to bear!"

Signe, that story makes me cringe.

The worst that has happened to me is tripping in a recently cut soybean field while accompanying my father on one of his hunts.  I impaled my wrist on a stalk and tore half the muscle.  Luckily I was in an insulated suit with lots of clothing underneath so nothing else got stabbed.  It did teach me to use my left hand more (yay ambidexterity!) and gave me an anecdote for threads like this.  Otherwise my life would be totally boring.

Yow.  Makes my childhood look peaceful by comparison.  Worst I had was getting my hand sliced by a shovel.  I must have been really young as I don't think I was in school yet (so I guess 4?).  Me and another kid were digging in the yard, 'cause that's what boys that age do I guess.  He was knocking the dirt loose with a shovel, then pause while I scooped out the dirt with my hands.  Our timing got off - I reached in at the same time he came down, and slamed the shovel blade across my fingers.

When it happened, I was scared shitless because of all the blood.  Screamed at the top of my lungs not because of the pain - when running back to the house I remember thinking it was odd it didn't hurt - but because of all the blood that covered much of my hand.  Too much adrenaline I guess.  All that's left now is a tiny scar that's hard to see unless I'm looking for it, so it couldn't have been that bad although I thought I was dying at the time.

When I was a kid, I accidentally broke a flourescent tube. I put it in the garbage and dutifully told my parents about it. Next day, I had to take down the garbage. So along the way, I'm swinging the garbage bag back and forth, and I'm noticing this faint scratching on my calf on every other swing or so. No big deal, I thought. I dumped the garbage bag, then felt something wet around my socks. I had sliced myself with a protuding broken flourescent tube from the garbage sack. The 3 inch wound was so clean it hardly hurt at all, but it bled like Niagara. I should have gotten stiches, really, but I dig having a scar now, just to make the story better.

I'll spare you the story of having half of an ingrown toenail removed entirely without anaesthesia.

That is exactly the same story a friend of mine told me about her leg as a kid.  Seems to be a popular way to cut yourself up.

My brother and I played Lightsabers.  With Real Flourescent Lights.  Needless to say, the game lasted one swing and you can imagine the scars we both came away with.

I was riding my bike when I was 10 with the neighborhood kids. There was this spot in the sidewalk where a large crack had caused a two inch rise between the two parts. So we decided it would be a good idea to hit it at speed and lift up to get airborn. I did this successfully, but the landing wasn't smooth. I went down on the handlebars and my hand brake went into my thigh when I landed. I felt like I'd been bruised until I looked down at my leg and saw an enormous four inch by one inch gash exposing the yellowy bleeding fat in my leg.

Then I started screaming like a stuck pig.

Only injury I can recall having was back when I was around 6 or so.

My twin brother and I had gotten one of our old high-chairs out from wherever Mom had stashed it and had been using it to root around in the pantry for cookies or sugar or something, and had left it standing in front of the pantry.  Shortly after the pantry raid, we decided that a game of tag through the house was in order, and were tearing around through the kitchen, round the dining room, down the halls and whatnot.

So, here I am, just about caught up to my brother, rounding a corner in the kitchen, reach out to tag him at high speed, and stick my arm through the spindles on the back of the high-chair.  Needless to say, I stopped rather suddenly, and dislocated my shoulder good enough it looked like i had an arm growing out of my back.  Scared the shit out of my brother, but nothing a short trip to the hospital didnt fix.

This happened in college,  at the big Williams/Amherst rugby match.  We have a little bit of a rivalry.  We also would bet our rugby shirts on the outcome of the game.

I had some big dumb forward on the opposing team mule kick me right before the half.  It was muddy, so the bleeding stopped pretty quickly (being packed in with mud). We were winning, but it was close so there was no way I was going to the hospital in the ambulance like the nice EMT wanted.

I stared at him until he taped it up for me, and played out the second half.

We won the game.  I stuck around to wait for my opposing player to take his jersey off and hand it over,  and then drove myself to the hospital where the doctor discovered all three inches of the rugby clete had gone into my leg.  The nice doctor tried to clean out the mud and stitch it up.

Twenty-four hours later,  the leg was good and infected with a huge amount of swelling, mild passing out,  and red streaks running up from the shin to the thigh.

I then began a pleasant 3-4 weeks on half a dozen antibiotics, leavened with some Percoset.  Take meds,  throw up for a while a half hour later,  pass out from the Percoset/meds for a while, repeat.  With a side of going to a nice surgeon who would "debris" my leg (cut out the dead parts that were rotting).  The surgeon left the wound open to breath, or something,  so it needed to be repacked with sterile gauze twice a day.

The highlight was when the surgeon,  the first time he was cutting parts of the wound out,  poked inside my leg and said "wow, this goes right down to the bone."

I think Signe wins most grisly story, though.

Should've had the maggot treatment.

One of my friends offered to buy me a parrot if I lost my leg.  I didn't think it was funny.  :cry:

/Rugby stories

I saw someone's foot get ripped almost entirely off at a rugby match once. 

... didn't keep playing the season after that. 

That's actually really funny. 

No, she really doesn't, unless there's a hidden one on the page - yours is far worse.

I realise that the timing would be wrong (since it only came into serious use lately) but I agree totally with Trippy.  Maggots would have sorted you right out.

:)

Wow.  You guys make me glad I'm careful.  I realized at a young age that I don't like pain.

Worst I've had was having my right thumb crushed by a 60-ish pound rock.  Was helping my dad move it, it slipped, smashed me pretty good.  Hurt like a bitch and I lost the fingernail, though about 18 months later it had grown back and looked normal again.

No, yours is definitely worse.  The prongs on that thingy never even scraped a bone and two of them were only through the edges of the foot.  I was a kid, my feet were small.   I ended up with three stitches... that's probably the least amount I've had at one time.  And the Aunt thing... well, that's not grisly, it's just weird.  My foot didn't turn blue or smell bad or liquefy or anything.  You definitely win.

I would probably win the "grisly accidents I've cause other living creatures to endure" contest, though.  :oops:  I'm not good with living things.

What I like about Signe's story is that she says she was alone in a yard and just jumping for the hell of it and nobody questions it,  because it sounds right for her.

Meanwhile, I can't think of the last time I decided I just needed to jump a few times.

I used to love to jump and stomp around.  I would get shouted at for stomping but I couldn't break the habit.  Actually, I used to pretty much get shouted all the time.  Every thing I seemed to do was too loud.  My family didn't like loud children.  I've changed, though.  I'm very quiet and demure now.  Shy, even.  Just like Diana.  You know... the dead princess.

You didn't jump about as a tot?

Johnny definately 'wins'.  Signe made me cringe.  You made me want to skip lunch.  :-P

Why?  It didn't turn black and smell or anything.  I did have a moment, however, when I was in the huge shadow of my falling auntie. 

And spin... I used to love to spin, too.  Jump, stomp and spin.  I didn't really need toys and actually didn't play with many.   I did enjoy my Tonka trucks, though.  My family had a building business and I was fascinated with dump trucks and backhoes.

My kids do this constantly, by themselves, for hours.  I often look at them while they do that and wonder when that is driven out of us as we grow up.  I wouldn't mind having that desire to just "move" for the hell of it again.

I do work out.  I guess that is as close I'll ever get again.

Shy and plastered all over French Traffic Tunnels.

Kids just have a lot of energy to burn. I cannot find the article now, but last year Iread about a study done where adults tried to mimic all the physcial movements of an active 4 year old. The calories expended by the adults were the equivalent of running a marathon.

She was totally intact.  I'm sure if you asked the people working for the queen who got to her first, they'd tell you so.  You know... the ones holding the pillow....

Reflex.  I think about impaling anything and my nervous system makes me flinch.

I flinch like that when I see someone, even in an advert, nick themselves shaving.  Face, leg, anything... it just gives me jelly legs for some reason.

I just had a poke go bad.  Impaling?  Ick.

Fun (non-disgusting,  very embarrassing) story from my recovery:

I "lost" my car.  I had been feeling better,  still drugged up, and decided to drive over to the Health Center where I got the bandaging and all that taken care of.  I then forgot I had driven, and walked back to my dorm because I felt so good.

I had no idea what had happened to my car for a couple weeks. 

That happened to me once in the 80s. Goddamned woodstock acid.

That's what you get for dropping acid that's been lying around for 20 years.

None of the cool colours, all of the confusion.

It was the going bad bit which won out.  The mention of bone.  The rotting flesh...

Heh. Woodstock the cartoon character. Double-dipped, too.

I am going to carry this image to my grave, and laugh every time I think about it.

I got a few, none as terrible as the foot impaling or the rotting leg meat.

I was young enough that I don't remember (or maybe I just blocked it out), but I guess I had a rose thorn in the palm of my hand for days/weeks and didn't tell anyone until it had worked it's way into the meat and gotten infected. My mom took me to the doctor who promptly strapped me onto an operating table type thing, locked my mother out of the room and dug it out with a big needle (no pain-killers). She told me she could hear me screaming through the door.

I only found this out a few months ago when my mom and my sister were discussing another injury story that happened when I was little.

I live in a town where logging was the main employment. We used to have this festival at a park named the timber bowl, that was like the logging Olympics. People would climb the spar tree and buck logs with axes and chainsaws, stuff like that. I guess people came from all over the world to my little town to compete. Anyway, there was a wooden bridge over a creek there, and being the child I was, I ran across it without shoes on. The result of this was me getting a massive splinter! It must have been 4 or so inches long and like 1/4 inch wide (according to my mother who doesn't have any spacial awareness). My mother took me to the doctor (different one) and the doctor told me that he was gonna shoot me up with Novocain or something like that. Me, being terrified of needles, flat refused. He told me he could use this spray on pain killer, but it wouldn't work as well. I told him that was fine and dandy as long as he didn't stab me with that thing, and he proceeded to operate on my foot. Of course the spray wore off after about 10 minutes, but I couldn't do anything because he told me to be still and quiet and I didn't want him chopping my foot off on accident. So he cut on my foot for another 15-20 minutes or so, and I didn't move or say a word ('cause I'm hardcore like that).

My sister asked why I wouldn't take the needle and my mother told her why (insane doctor with a penchant for child terror).

Also my sister hit me in the face with a stick and thought she popped my eye out (I was just bleeding a lot). I had to get 7 or so stitches right below my lower eyelid, and I have a bitchin' face scar. I still think it would have been way better if she popped it out, that eye is practically blind (not from getting hit in the face, I just have shitty vision) and if it would have popped out, I could be wearing an awesome eye patch and a monocle!

I remember telling my sister that there was a needle at the end of the light scope the doctors look into your eye with. For some reason she wouldn't let the doctor look into her eye at her next doctor appointment....

Oh, man, that's truly evil.

My father once told me that I had a twin but that he and my mother were so poor that they could only afford to keep one, so they kept the one they felt sorry for.  He never took it back, either.   :cry:

I'm sure she's very happy and well adjusted, living with her foster family.

Eep.

This actually happened to my maternal grandfather.  Poor Irish-American farming family,  so when my great-grandmother had twins they gave my grandfather away to cousins to raise.

So you're telling me that it might be true?   :|

I cut my foot at least 4 times when I was a kid, something about walking around with no shoes all the time, I guess.

I did the old Rusty hammer through the foot, much like Signe's story, but without the falling aunt, but that wasn't the worst one.

We used to have this .. thing in the back yard that I climbed all the time. It was something like a balcony, but without the decking, and I used to climb up there and just sit and look about the yard. One day it had been raining and I decided to climb up for some reason. It was basically just a tall square wooden pole, and I'd climb up with hand and feet, in a kind of < shape against the | of the pole, slowly moving up. Of course because it had been raining the thing was a bit slippery... and there happened to be a couple of nails half sticking out of the wood (I think there were there as guiders for some growing plant). Needless to say when the foot slips and slides down the wet wood over a nail it cuts it open in a rather nasty way.

But I managed to live 24 years w/o breaking any bone in my body (this record was ruined when I, drunk, decided that kicking a metal pole as had as I could would be a good idea. Woke up the next morning nad wondered why I was unable to walk). Childhood is a fun time.

My brother got a whole pallet of Soymilk dropped on his foot - that was one purple foot, I tell you.

My youngest brother rode his bike off a 3' stone wall and smashed his 6 year old balls on the corssbar. They turned the color of merlot for a week. Four years later he snapped his fibia skiing in France and had to be helicoptered off the mountain to the local hospital where they inserted a 6" steel pin. My dad, my other brother and me left him and my mom there while we went on to Verbier, Switzerland to finish our ski trip.

I, on the other hand, have been lucky and survived my one serious accident (crashing headfirst into hard snowpack at about 50mph) without any serious injury.

I think this has turned into one of those Hyu threads, hasn't it?

Is this where I tell how I stepped on a nail while holding an extension ladder?  Or how I hammered my thumb twice in one day?  Roofing sucks.

In my uncle's backyard when I was five, I noticed a pile of old bonfire ashes at the end of the garden and took a running leap into them.

I remember being fascinated by my school shoes melting. Then being taken to the doctor.