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Just in time for Christmas, a fresh set of broken ribs

My ribs and I are on the outs. Again. Painfully. This is far from the first time, but, frankly, it is getting old.

Heading for the truck on a recent frosty morning, I made it almost to the driveway from the front deck when the last stair step — encased in clear ice — launched my foot above my head. For an instant, I was in some kind of weird marching band pose. Sailing through the air, I knew the cosmic truth. I'm screwed, I was thinking as my rib cage and back connected with the stairs. The cracking sound was my ribs' way of saying, "Oh, yeah, you're screwed."

Breathless, knocked senseless, I just lay there a few seconds, unable to move. As the waves of pain roiled over me, I was just really, really ticked off. So much for a pain-free Christmas.

None of it should have surprised me, though. Breaking ribs, it turns out, is almost an avocation. I have found many and varied ways to abuse my hands and my legs, but my ribs have taken the brunt of the bad news.

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There was that time as a kid when I forgot to cover up after a blazing left jab missed its mark and seemed to really irritate the guy it was destined for. Did I mention he was huge? Or the motorcycle at high speed into the ditch time. Yes, yes, that was the beer time, too. Or the standing in the wrong place at the wrong time in the turret of an M109 howitzer when it went bang!

Then, there was the helicopter "hang-on-tight" jostle or the motorcycle slow-speed drop in the Hatcher Pass parking lot or the somewhat spectacular Jeep rollover on the Rubicon Trail. The ribs got a medevac on that one. Oh, and there were two or three parking lot tumbles in which I managed to find the only mounds on the property to rest my ribs on at a high velocity.

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The episodes become a blur after a while, but this time around was different. Before, the pain was not thunderclap immediate. It was an hour, or two, even five before any movement had me screaming like a little girl. (Can we say that now?) This time, the pain — imagine a shard of glass jammed into your chest — was lightning-strike immediate. And this time, one of the four broken little buggers penetrated a lung ever so briefly. The lung, being eminently more reasonable than your average rib, sealed right up on its own.

The doctors were friendly and cheerful, but can do nothing to really help. I did get great drugs but they only dulled the pain and made me ill. Then, my wife reminded me we still have the office chair I slept in for three months after the Hatcher Pass episode. Oh, goody. Then there are the deep breathing exercises to keep your lungs working, expanding, keeping the pain at a level about that of sticking a knitting needle into your ear. "You are," the doctor says, "an older guy. And pneumonia is what happens if you take shallow breaths."

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I am an older guy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. But I have been a weenie forever. That's right. A weenie. Pain is not my thing. Apple pie. Hot dogs. Grandchildren laughing. A snort of Jack Daniel's on a cold night. Ogling cool cars. Those all are my things. Count me in. But pain? I don't mind inflicting it, but would rather be elsewhere when it is offered at a discount.

You would think my ribs, knowing how I feel about such things, would be a little tougher. After all they protect all manner of important stuff. Heart. Lungs. All the gooey stuff in the middle. On some people they apparently are. Rock-ribbed Republicans come immediately to mind. Me? Not so much.

It turns out, a quick, sharp shot to one of our 24 ribs, a jab packing a 3,300-newton force has about a 25 percent chance of breaking a rib bone. (Internet experts say a newton would give a mass of one kilogram an acceleration of one meter-per-second per second, and is equivalent to 100,000 dynes.) In English, that means it does not take much to crack a rib, despite the rib cage's vaunted flexibility.

At this point, I've spent so much time dealing with the aftermath of rib-related dustups that I'm about ready to start naming them. Ah, Ralphie crapped out again, I could say, or, "What about that Jamie?" Maybe the smart move is to ask Santa for a set of cleats or just go out the garage door until spring and stop leading with my ribs.

Either way, for the next few weeks it will be me and my faithful office chair.

Yet again.

Paul Jenkins is editor of the AnchorageDailyPlanet.com, a division of Porcaro Communications.

The views expressed here are the writer's and are not necessarily endorsed by the Anchorage Daily News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary@adn.com. Send submissions shorter than 200 words to letters@adn.com or click here to submit via any web browser.

Paul Jenkins

Paul Jenkins is a former Associated Press reporter, managing editor of the Anchorage Times, an editor of the Voice of the Times and former editor of the Anchorage Daily Planet.

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