I broke my wrist three times during my childhood.
In the first grade, I broke my wrist, climbing over a fence.
It had to be one of the most painful moments in my life.
My mom rushed me to urgent care,
They gave me a sling and an appointment for surgery.
I was given anesthetic for the operation,
They let my mom in the operating room.
I writhed and writhed on the table,
Screaming my head off.
I don’t remember this,
All I remember is waking up.
I thought I woke up in a different room.
It was the same as where I started,
Anesthetics made my childish mind foggy.
I was in the fifth grade the second time I broke my wrist.
We were running the mile.
I was never athletic.
I took the time to talk to my friends,
Running backward on a poorly paved track, blabbing about meaningless things.
My heel caught on a crack, and I tumbled to the ground, trying to catch my fall.
I screamed in pain and everyone surrounded me.
I screamed out, “it’s broken! I know it is!”
My teacher told me I was overreacting and being childish.
I sobbed all the way to the nurses' office.
The antidote.
A Ziploc of ice wrapped in a paper towel.
I called the home phone from the office.
My stay-at-home mother didn’t pick up the phone.
I didn’t have a ride that day, so I walked.
Cradling my limp and swollen limb through the Indiana suburbs.
Luckily this wasn’t the worst break.
A fracture of the growth plate.
This made sure I knew the pain for the third time,
The third time would be the worst . . .
My uncle. My godfather. My best friend. Passed away in the ICU.
It was the first few weeks of the sixth grade
I remember sleepless nights in the hospital.
Grief was a stranger to me. I didn’t know how to process it.
My Uncle. My godfather. My best friend. My idol. A second father. Stolen from me.
In an attempt to cheer me up,
My parents took me to my cousin's farm to ride horses.
I was an experienced rider.
For some reason I decided to try an English saddle for the first time.
I always rode Texas. The handle gave me comfort.
My sister was using English. Why couldn’t I?
I was riding a young male horse.
It was going well. The English saddle suited me. I felt free.
I directed the horse to water. It was still blistering hot outside.
Early September in Southern Indiana is incredibly bi-polar,
Much like horses.
My sister’s horse came over. They got territorial.
My horse started bucking.
With only the reins and my legs, I struggled to hold on.
I flung into the air.
I hit the ground.
The horse sprinted across the arena,
Untamed.
I remember crying and screaming in the dirt.
The horse's hoof was mere inches from my skull.
My mom rushed to save her baby.
“Why didn’t you move?”
“The horse could’ve crushed you!”
I said, “It happened again!”
“It happened again!”
Over and over I repeated those three words.
Snot and tears streamed down my chubby face.
I had snapped my outer bone and refractured my recently healed growth plate.
I had come close to death two times that month.
Grief was a sweater as the seasons changed and the temperature dropped.
I attended Thanksgiving in a cast—the first holiday without my Uncle.
I learned to grieve for my best friend in plaster.
Isaac's personal essay "I Look Back: Forward" won second prize in SVA's Humanities & Sciences Annual Undergraduate Writing Contest in the spring of 2022. He also won third prize for his short script, "Inherit My Love." Isaac is a third year Film major at the School of Visual Arts.