Air Borne
When I was in school, me & my mate Day used to sneak off to the nearby park at dinner time. No real reason too, we didn't smoke & there was fuck all to do other than sit on the swings, we just weren't supposed too & this appealed to us. Anyway, one day, things changed. We had some company... Sarah & Liz! They were a couple of girls from our form who were known for their loose ways back then, & for some reason, they wanted to be around our chubby, twisted selves. "We're in here", we both thought, & thus set about trying to impress them, mainly by outdoing one another. It was at this point, someone suggested, "Who could jump furthest off the swing". Day was 1st up, getting a bit of a swing on, he jumped, 6 feet maybe. Just by the edge of the protective wood chips. The girls seemed impressed. "THAT WAS SHIT YOU QUEER!!!" I yelled, attempting to make him look bad to make the girls like me more! "Let's see you do better then" he replied. "Piece of piss" thought I, & so I began swinging, higher & higher, bar to bar, full pelt, waiting for the right moment... Then it arrived. I got to the highest swing point & pushed away. I was air borne. A few seconds passed. Still air borne. "Wow me" I thought to myself, "Those girls are gonna sooooooooooooo impressed". Then I landed.

I hadn't thought about this part, it genuinely never crossed my mind. In a crumpled heap on the ground, I looked back to see the swings some 40+ feet away. The distance didn't matter all of a sudden. I was down & I was hurt. I lay in a crumpled mess, the other 3... Where pissing themselves! "Don't let them see your hurt" my stupid teenage brain thought. I had come down on my right arm, which by the grace of God, wasn't broken, infact, nothing was broken, or cut, or sprained, or twisted. My only injury was bruising... Of the ribs!

I've broken toes & fingers before, I've cut all manner of bits open, I've snorted wasabi, I've squeezed a 2 year old blackhead the size of a ball bearing in my penis! But nothing, NOTHING!!! Has ever hurt like bruised ribs. Moving- Makes them hurt. Breathing- Makes them hurt. Holding your breath- Makes them hurt a bit. Breathing out after holding your breath- Makes them hurt alot. Just simply being- Makes them hurt!

For nearly 3 weeks, I was in constant pain, & because it was self inflicted, no-one gave a fuck, I even had to go to school because my mum was so pissed off at me for going out at lunch time!

Oh yeah, & a week later, Sarah & Liz were going out with 2 bigger boys from the year above who regularly fucked them senseless during dinner time in the park by our school, sometimes on those bastard swings!
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 4:47, 7 replies)

Not me, but a friend went through the most horrific pain imaginable
His house fell over and a brick landed on his head and like it popped out his eye and stuff. so his eye was just like hanging there and he it was swinging around and shit he didnt even notice his broken arm which was snapped with his bone was sticking out like 20cm from his arm and the pointy bit was just like poking the eye ball which kept swinging into it. the cat had its claws deep imbedded in his face and his other eye- cos it was scared or something. he had a major presentation on the same day and a house inspection. And he was waxing his legs when all that happened, and he left the iron on and it fell and landed on his stomach when he was lying there, but he couldnt move and it just like melted his skin as he screamed in agony. he was stuck there all day, and because he had no roof he got severe sunburn.
(augsav forgot about B3ta, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 3:48, 12 replies)

I got banged up in prison a while back
A trifling matter of mistaken identity; that squaddie thought I'd said I had medical training, when in fact all I did was say "How do you do" and try to shake his hand. It's not my fault I hardly know my own strength.

Anyway, these days if I drop the soap in the shower, I leave it where it is, get dressed and go out and buy a new bar. Just in case.
(Craig Colclough I've been on the telly you know. And in the papers, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 1:51, Reply)

junior bmx bandit superman.
Put the kettle on, it's a longun.

It was a lovely summer day mid way through the 1980s. I was but a young nipper of 5 or 6 and had been (as we all were then) riding around the nearby streets on my bike.

~wavy lines~

I remember my trusted steely steed well, it was labelled a 'Buster'. A Rayleigh I think but a quick search tonight turned up nothing of that bygone vintage marque. Nonetheless, it was a trusted steely steed indeed as I must have had it some time. The only modification from 'factory spec' was the removal of stabilisers after I'd learned to ride properly on only two wheels.

I felt invincible, as do most young pedal pilots riding on the crest of such an achievement. In my mind my bicycular prowess was worthy of a young Nicole Kidman polishing my helmet. Therein lies problem number 1. In those halcyon bananarama / bros / kylie & jason days, only the spectacularly safety conscious parents of nerds and tossers insisted they wore oversized bell-end headgear. I did not. A rambo stylee school-tie headband was as far as I'd go.

A precursor of the floppy haired stunty cunty bmx'ers of todays city centres and their fancy skate parks and spinny flippy tricks, in my 'hood we did things old skool. A bit of old plywood and a few hastily rustled up bricks would be stealthily fashioned into a launch ramp in the lane between the garages. The only adjustments to trajectory were in increments of brick height with fine tuning by virtue of bunny hop ability and take-off speed.

Problem 2 was that I'd already retired my pedal powered projectile in the garden-based batcave for the evening when the ramp came about. I would have to have a shot on somebody elses bike. The only one available to me was a right old bitsa (cobbled together from bitsa this and bitsa that). To say that it had impaired handling characteristics wouldn't begin to cover it. As I recall, the back wheel was slightly smaller than the front, fuck knows what if any brakes it had (you could always rely on a foot jammed against the back tyre and a bollocking later for wrecking another pair of trainers!). There are certain other methods of velocity reduction but I woulf ill advise their use. Read on.

The arena was set, the challenge awaited and the adrenaline built as I taxi'd to the far end of the runway. I had a bit of trouble turning tightly on the bitsa since I had to lean past 45 degrees to touch the floor, but once remounted I was off. My junior legs pumped like Gump. I struggled to keep my head low for better aerodynamics while precisely aiming, to avoid the rusted nails at the base of my lanchpad. The wind began to rush as I gained momentum, I lowered my stance on the final approach and heaved with all my might to gain every morsel of extra lift on the launch.

I soared. Probably 5 or 6 feet, but to me it felt like 150 at least. The rushing air blew back my hair and chilled my face and hairless chest. As I prepared to land, problem 2 came to the fore. Whatever inhuman fuckwit had cobbled this bitsa together, they had omitted to factor in the gravity defying nature of bmx'es and the metal fatigue and parts stresses caused by extendedly repeated launch/flight/land manouvres. The previously oversized front wheel was no more so. Indeed, it had left me several miles (sic) earlier, on takeoff and so it was that an emergency crash landing occurred with the forks making first contact with terra firma.

I was immediately catapulted headlong toward problem 3, with which I would become intimately aquainted. The road surface of that back-street was something I've not seen in many years. It was tar beneath, but coated in a shallow depth of sharp grey gravel similar to some commercial builing roofs. I still live within a couple of miles of the scene and it's thankfuilly been resurfaced in normal asphalt macadam stuff, much to the benefit of any young daredevil taking a spill there today.

To the ouch ("thank feck" I hear from those still reading!)

My memory of the impact is rather blurred partly due to trauma and likely exacerbated by years of cannabis abuse, but the aftermath is clear as day so I'll reconstruct...

The heels of my palms were the first part of my body to touch ground. I could tell from the heavy stripes of skin missing from my palms, all parallel and running from mid-palm to wrist, increasing slightly in width as they went and kindly overlaid with a film of dirt and frequent flecks of embedded gravel.
OUCH.

My hands must have been outstretched and flung upward, as the next point of contact was my nose. It's actually quite miraculous I had a nose left at all. Most of the visible skin was gone, I had a little bit left between my nostrils (that bit Daniella Westbrook dissolved with coke)and some left around the edges where it joins my cheeks. The rest was just a huge bloody mess, peppered like my hands with dirt and gravel.
FUCKING BASTARD OUCH
Thankfully it mustn't have been deep as I never received any surgery although I think it would have received a skin graft now as I'm 30 and the scar is faded but still visible.

I have no idea how, but one of my front teeth was pushed through my upper lip. Fuck knows where the tooth went, all I know is that I had a hole through the exact middle (still scarred) that took ages to heal. I now know the real purpose of milk teeth is that you get a second chance after (supposedly) learning that severe imact can dislodge them surprisingly easily.
OUCHY CUNT OUCH

It was also strange that I had only light road-rash across my bare chest in a semi-curcular 'rainbow' shape. As remarked by the patient nurse who sat for around 3 HOURS swabbing dirt from my wounds and picking out the larger pieces of debris with tweezers. With my only comfort being my mam's hand to hold and some "DOESN'T FEEL VERY FUCKING MAGIC - SHIT, OOH, CUNT, OW BE GENTLE YOU BASTARD" cream.

Length? As I said probably a few feet but it felt fucking transatlantic.

GC
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 1:16, 3 replies)

Is it supposed to look like that?
Being a rugbyist, I've had my fair share of injuries, including buggering my neck in collapsed scrums leading to my premature (a view not necessarily shared by my wife and/or team-mates) retirement. No reason to cry into my cocoa though.

I did cry (like a girly football player) when I dislocated my knee though. Strewth. Given my choice of playing position, it'll come as no surprise that I've never been described as 'malnourished'. I am something of a chubby funster in fact. One training session, I was tackled by an eeny-weeny scrum-half. As his shoulder made contact with my leg, I stepped off my right foot which got planted in the mud. All my not inconsiderable weight on my leg, and it was inevitable something had to give. My knee cap. Smarted a bit I can tell you.

The really painful bit, wasn't putting it back in again, although that did make my eyes water, but later...I was in a neoprene splint for about 3-4 weeks, during which time my knee joint froze solid. One evening, during a solo drinking session chez moi, I'd hobbled to the loo on my crutches. As I reversed out, like a clumsy twat, I tripped and fell, forcing my leg to bend as I hit the deck. That was the most painful bit. I sobbed as I lay in a heap on the floor at the foot of the stairs as the wife looked on in shock. Fuck me. I'll be quite happy if I never have to go through that again, cheers.

A few days later when I went for a consultant check-up. Despite being told that the bastard was frozen solid, the twat tried to bend my knee. There was the loudest 'crack' as he further fucked my knee, my wife screamed and the new, shiny-looking juniors with the doc, nearly passed out. I called him a wanker.

Long story, short; dislocated knee playing rugby. Fell over a while later. Really hurt. Knee made worse by ham-fisted quack. No excuses, it's late and I'm bored. No doubt so are you after that...
(Tighthead, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 0:44, Reply)

I had an abscess once
In my back tooth. After a while, a dentist told me that after the filling they had done, it was cleared up.

Cue 7 years later, I was on the floor, screaming, eyeball popping out. It took me fucking forever to even see an NHS emergency dentist, who could only anaesthetise it until I got to my own.

It turns out that the abscess had gone down to my jaw. After weeks of crying myself to sleep most nights, they finally gave it a root canal.

That was a fun month.
(Iggy Pop's Teeth, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 0:15, 4 replies)

Everyone is having a go, so why not me too..
I have ouchy tooth related incidents.

There's the time when I was chased up the stairs by my spastic ('for the last time, we do not look alike, he's the ugly one')brother with a plastic spider. Knocked my tooth clean out with a pencil.

I also fell off my bike as a proper youngster and knocked both teeth out.

Then there was THE time. The pinnacle of my life that has been the basis of all childhood bullying etc. I was giving a younger brother a piggy back (note: I have many idiotic tall, short, handsome, ugly brothers, and they will all have their story time at some point..) and tripped face first onto the concrete. No hands to stop the fall - apparently I cared about the little dick face on my back far to much to let him fall.

Cue much screaming, mothers running, dentist visits and hospital trips. I knocked one tooth with root straight out, chipped the t'other and cut up my chin/nose etc. I wasn't given a falsely for at least 1 year (aka. tight parents, tighter NHS) resulting in much ridicule; I now have a bridge and all looks normal...

Anyone else had quite a bad toothy time?

There's also the time I trapped my fingers in a gate, got bitten by a yapping dog, fell out a tree...

*Oh, I also got knocked down by a car ON A ZEBRA crossing 2 years ago.*

Funny how it's the biggies we forget and it's the niggling wisdom tooth that I'm more upset with...
(miss stevie needs you to like me, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 23:34, Reply)

Bit stupid really
But I wondered what would happen if I held onto the chuck key of an electric drill and then switched it on. One screamingly agonising nanosecond later and I had a shattered 1st phalanx on my right middle finger. I told my parents I dropped a block of wood on it.

My father - a doctor - saw it was inflating to twice the size and going interesting shades of purple, and advised me to take a couple of aspirin and let the swelling go down, it would be fine the next day.

It wasn't. I spent four weeks with a splinted finger. On the plus side, I got out of homework as I couldn't hold a pen. Result!
(Mrs Trellis GIN, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 23:23, 1 reply)

has anyone seen the...
Jar Squatter video?
( Mister B is eating an icanhazcheezburger with lmaonaise, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 22:48, 11 replies)

A cyst on the nad tubes and pretty much any sort of movement.

A kneecap that moved in the wrong direction and having to walk up to two flights of very step 100 year old stairs every day.

Length ? Short and panicked as it's my first time
(lilben81, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 22:29, 2 replies)

A membrane sweep....
this is what Midwives do when your baby is overdue. It is supposed to start things off within 24 hours.
Basically they put their finger in the holiest of holies, through your cervix, and then sweep it around in a circular motion on the outside of the amniotic sac.... the intrustion unsurprisingly usually starts the baby labouring out.

Now I'd been warned about this by a friend who purely for the warning is, in my opinion, a Goddess among women. I can never thank her enough for telling me that is what midwives have in mind so I could refuse one.

As it turned out, before I even went into labour my son went into distress so I ended up with something very similar as a consultant tried to manipulate him from inside my uterus into a position that raised his foetal heart rate above 40 bpm - should be between 120 and 160.

so in summation, a membrane sweep from a small-handed midwife. Ouch. Having a bloke's hand with cow's tit fingers rammed up your mimsy with the added stresses of thinking your baby might actually be dying inside you.... fucking priceless.

I'd rather be fisted by Freddie Krueger than go through that again.
( Sallyrsm, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 21:55, 2 replies)

Girlfriend + knife = pain
Last christmas my girlfriend was in the kitchen making us a turkey based snack when she started screaming, I ran out to see what was wrong to find her jumping around in a panic while waving a large knife. I ask what was wrong and she said she had seen a moth (she hated moths)

I told her to calm down as it was gone, at this point it flew past me and she started her screaming panic dance again, about two foot in front of me. Out of instinct I put my hands up, that was a mistake, she managed to slice off a piece of the middle finger on my left hand. About three quaters of the nail and a chunk of flesh was gone, no damage to the bone.

Hurt like a bastard for a couple of days and took about three months to heal, the nail is still a mess. I never found the bit of my finger that went missing. We broke up shortly after.
(cname, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 20:20, 1 reply)

Gotta love this one.
I was running backwards on a crosscountry run at school.

I slipped on a road squashed frog and landed on barbed wire.

I was miles from school and a lovely lady drove me back there letting her lovely new car seat cover in blood.

The school nurse said it was just a scratch, cottonwoolled off the blood and fainted.

Extra ouchies for having to watch the stitching in the reflection of the doctor's glasses.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 18:58, Reply)

Anal Fissure
Forgot about this till someone mentioned poo

A few years ago I slipped two of the discs in my lower back while playing badminton. Course this fucking hurt like hell, especially as I was due in the office that afternoon (a sunday). I could barely walk and was crying in pain, but due to being a city type person I had no choice but to go in and force myself to work for a couple of hours to at least get some of the shite done.

Anyway I digress - next day I got to see the works doctor due to not actually being registered anywhere. The works doctor was some highly paid private nobend - he took one look at me an decided it was a slipped disk and prescribed a big load of drugs. One of them was valium cos, as he put it 'You will be miserable for the next few weeks'.
I was in constant pain, no matter what position I got it - couldnt lie down, stand, sit or uhm '*insert other'. Sooo I happily popped the valium like there was no tomorrow.

8 weeks later the disk popped back in (cue applause and angels singing as I can get my first real nights sleep in weeks).

So I stop taking the pain killers, valium etc.
By this time I'm feeling mostly ok, except that I havent been able to shit for about three days. I didnt find out till then that valium makes u constipated.
Oh well, just need a curry says I.
Another three days go by and now I'm feeling like my lower abdomen is full of concrete.
That morning I poke my finger up my bum, it barely goes in and is met with a wall of solid poo.
I mean really solid, like its made of stone.
Only one thing for it, push like I'm having a baby.
So I do. I push so hard I pop a blood vessel in my eye
And give myself an anal fissure o.o
The resulting poo log was about the width of a tennis ball. Sadly I wasnt in any kind of mood to go find a camera (Sorry, you're disappointed now arent u), mainly cos - my arse was bleeding plus, have u ever smelt a poo thats lingered inside yer colon for a week?

Anyway, took a couple of weeks before I could poo without crying and another few years for the pain in my back to stop.
Turns out private doc was a wanker for not sending me for an MRI - not only had a slipped a couple of disks, I'd also dislocated my pelvis on boths sides, something I'm still in physiotherapy for.
(EvilMeister, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 18:38, 6 replies)

Having my mind bleached stung a bit
but was worth it after happening upon www.reddit.com/r/gore

I'd say don't click it, it's hidden for a reason, but then again that didn't stop me so why should it stop you?
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:56, 1 reply)

A long, drawn-out 'Ouch!'
Perhaps you've been there, too: To be bullied in such a way that you are the school year's pariah, at a boarding school no less where there is nowhere to run. You're only eight but already your outcast status is set in stone. A false, cruel rumour about a tryst...

Everyone says you're gay. You don't even know what that means. But you know it's REALLY BAD. Places clear either side of you at the breakfast, lunch or dinner table. You are contaminated. So many casual kicks and slaps, and trip-ups that leave your exercise books scattered across the floor. You get used to it after a while.

School outings or sporting activities that necessitate buddying up result - in the worst-case, odd-numbers scenario - in your partner being the teacher. You hear the sniggers and you know the teacher does, too.

Mummy's not been well so you had to leave home a year early at seven and snitching is social suicide, so you choose death by a thousand cuts. Father is always angry, too. No use trying to pierce his rhino-hide. He'd only see weakness.

At 13 you move to a big boys' boarding school. The constant state of fear has stunted your physical development. This means a small dick and no pubes for nearly three long years. Every shared shower is a misery. You are a boy amongst ‘men’. Sometimes you wet your hair in a basin after games and pretend you’ve already been. Or you hide under your bed and creep down to the showers when lessons have begun. You’d rather answer to a teacher than hear the whooping apes’ chorus of taunts and insults.

Someone likes your youthful physique though. He listens and he is sympathetic. You cry in front of him, and he embraces you, but he is a wolf in a cassock – a hypocrite and a demon - and you become another buried statistic in the catholic church’s litany of squalid betrayal. Maybe you really are gay.

At 14 you run away from home at the end of the summer holidays. You are found and returned. A pathetic cry for help. Your mother is perceived as the wounded party. Nobody asks you WHY? Instead of the usual taxis and trains, your father drives you back to school – not out of kindness but to ensure you don’t try to run again.

By 20 you are in rehab, a human pin-cushion, a vile junkie, your hand swollen and hot with the infected puss from a burst vein. You don’t believe it then but there are good people in the world and with their help you will find a way to build a life.

But the wounds run deep and, as my fortieth birthday looms, I am still hurting.

Ouch.
(Happybara The jungle came alive and took him, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:50, 5 replies)

Cricket
Ah cricket the calmest of sports. However it is not so calm for a team mate who forgot to wear his box. That fateful day the ball hurtled straight into his groin splitting his trouser snake so it looked like a snakes tongue! Having gone to hospital to have his bell end stitched back together he enjoyed a period of convalescence until a week before the stitches were due out he had a careless moment lying on the sofa, got a hard on and all the stitches burst out.

Remember kids use protection!
(The Liquorice Allstar I need cricket, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:30, 1 reply)

Karma
I was really enjoying this qotw until last night, when a pothole in the road had me flying over the handlebars of my bicycle swiftly followed by a painful landing on the tarmac. It didn't help that it was outside a trendy Notting Hill joint so I inadvertently supplied the slapstick entertainment for the Beautiful People drinking and dining the night away.

Today my palms are full of gravel, it hurts to breathe, I'm hobbling around like an eighty-year old and I don't find these stories half so amusing...
( electric_goat, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:06, Reply)

Now wash your hands
I used to wear daily contact lenses. Not the disposable type, the ones you washed in speshul slooshun and left to soak overnight, then pop them in the next morning, and you're sighted for the rest of the day!

Made myself a chilli and was careful to wash my hands thoroughly afterwards, before eating. Munch munch, yum yum. Then I did the washing up. My hands were immersed in the hot soapy water. So was the chilli pan.

Anyway, I sat down and watched telly for a couple of hours before bedtime and thought no more of it. Before bed, I made sure I cleaned my lenses like a good boy and left them to soak overnight.

I can't have washed my hands of the chilli-infused washing-up water well enough, because when I put my lenses in the next morning, I felt like I'd been tear-gassed. I couldn't open my eyes to take the damned lenses out or wash them with clean solution, and it hurt like hell even with my eyes closed. I had to phone work and tell them I'd be a bit late - it was 45 minutes before they'd calmed down enough to take out the lenses, and even then my eyes were as red as if I'd just lost the World Eyepoking Championships.

A month or so later I switched to the extended wear lenses you leave in for weeks at a time.
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:04, 4 replies)

A Friend of mine
once walked into a half open Garage door, hitting his head. The Edge of the dorr cut into and peeled back his scalp.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 16:57, Reply)

As bad as all the stories I have read have been
nothing has come close to seeing that picture of the guy who got his fingers stuck in a mincer.

I would try and get a picture, but i feel it would be a sick idea.

If you really want to see it - google it... with the safe search off.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 16:50, 2 replies)

One for the laydeez
We've had lots of eye-watering penile/testicular injuries. A few girly equivalents, but not so many. So, to redress the balance, and get more women wincing, here's one my sister told me...

Entering the toilets at work, she found another girl slumped on the floor moaning in pain. Between sobs and groans, the story came out: on entering the cubicle, she'd turned around quickly to shut the door. Being a Woman Of Size, one of her not insignificant norks had swung outwards, in deference to the laws of angular momentum and centripetal force. And she'd managed to slam her nipple in the door as it banged shut...

I don't even have breasts and it makes me shudder.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 16:36, 3 replies)

Ice skating is evil
Moaning about pain, you say?

*clears throat

Many moons ago, when I was but a little bean, I went ice skating with a bunch of mates. Not being very proficient at this sport I spent most of the evening pootling about at low speed, hanging onto the rink walls.

After an hour or so I felt more confident and ventured farther towards the middle where the faster people were. One of my friends was an expert and could do it *backwards* so I spent a few seconds contemplating their amazing skills before ***smack. Something hit me with tremendous speed and force, causing me to hit the rock-hard ice like a fish slapping Michael Palin's face.

It was a woman travelling at twice the speed of sound. Unfortunately we both landed on my left arm. I wasn't really aware of the pain at first, I just knew that it ought to hurt and dutifully commenced crying my eyes out. Some nice, helpful members of the public crowded round and tried to help me up by pulling on said arm. I told them to sodding well release me whilst screaming a bit more.

Then a rink hand fought his way through the throng, hauled me up by grabbing me under the arms and dragged me back to the changing rooms.
By this point I'd calmed down a bit and the tears had stopped. Arm was throbbing a little. The rink hand asked me to move my fingers and flex my arm, movements which I performed easily. "Ah, 'tis but a sprain," He cried, "No ambulance for you, young lady!"

I sat there and moaned for a bit longer, before sulkily pleading for a taxi to take me to the hospital. It was now hurting a bit more. The doctor who assessed me in A&E was hot. But he said I'd probably broken my arm a bit so tempting him with a bit of underage minge was probably off the cards.

Arm was x-ray'd and a special ortho man came to tell me all about wrists, 'cos that bit was broken. I had my colles fracture taped up and was booked in to have it manipulated back into place under anaesthetic in a couple of days.

What they didn't notice was that my elbow was also mashed to fuck. So I sat there, elbow resting on table, whilst they wrapped up the handy-wristy bit.

The next two days were agony trying to sleep. I flexed and unflexed my elbow, trying to get my arm in a comfortable position. I took many ibuprofen. Okay for a headache but they don't do much for a broken arm.

When I returned to the hospital I asked kindly if they wouldn't mind re-checking the x-ray to see if my elbow was ok. The doctor held it up to the window, "Nah it's fine." I moaned a bit more about the pain and he walked up to the light box with some frustration at his whingey patient. "Oh dear, you have broken it. Whoops!"

So they put a bit more plaster on it and a few hours later I was put under for some operation-y goodness. I came out with several pins in my elbow and a seven inch scar along my arm. Apparently moving around a broken elbow for two days doesn't do much good.

Length? 2 days of unmedicated ouch, 6 weeks of 10-tonne-backslab plastercast and 5 months of physio :)
(KeenBean objects to this comma, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 16:05, 2 replies)

Mum almost killed me.
I was about 10 years old and had just come back from cub camp. I started to get a stomach ache and complained to my mum.
That night she was having a dinner party and didn't want any interuption so told me to go back to my room.
The pain got worse then draw droppingly anonizing. I came downstairs again doubled over with pain but my mother though I was being dramatic and sent be off to bed again.
Luckily one of the dinner guests was a doctor and even though my mother was annoyed that I had disrupted her evening and the evening of her guests he insisted and examined me.
At this point he picked me up, put me in his car and sped off to the nearest hospital, used his doctor status to jump the queue and within 20 minutes I was being operated on to remove
my appendix that was on the point of rupturing (something that is invariably fatal).
Cheers mumsy.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 16:00, 2 replies)

Tyres again
Moon monkey's post reminded me of something a friend of mine told me. Way, way back in the mists of time there were very few regulations for safety equipment used in fitting new tyres to lorries and buses. Now, these very large tyres use "split rim" wheels where the wheel comes apart and the tyre is held in place by a metal ring. The ring clips into a groove and is forced on by the 100psi or so that a large truck tyre is inflated to. If the ring wasn't clipped in properly, then the pressure would force it, and the removable part of the wheel rim, off and fire it into the air at a hell of a speed. These days, you put them into a metal cage or brick/concrete enclosure. Back then, though, people just blew them up on the workshop floor.

In this case one guy was blowing up such a tyre when the ring came off, sending the rim upwards. He was leaning over the tyre at the time, and it lifted him with enough force to pin him against a roof truss breaking his spine and almost chopping him in half. Apparently that wasn't what killed him though, it was when he unstuck from the roof truss and fell 20-odd feet back to the workshop floor, landing on his neck.
(gordonjcp, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 14:04, 12 replies)

Animal and Work Colleague Abuse
I currently work in a call centre which, while slowly chipping away at what remains of my soul, provides me with beer money for the weekend. It also provides me with a few genuine laughs, thanks to the people I work with.

There's a girl in the office who is...hmmm, how can I put this delicately...fat as fuck. It's as if Dawn French had eaten Rick Waller, Chris Moyles and Brian Blessed in one sitting. If you need to walk across the office, you have to compensate for her gravitational pull. In short, she's fat. Very very fat.

While wandering past my desk, she stops and starts rubbing her legs with a groaning sound. "You alright?" I ask, while surreptitiously clicking to hide my internet browser. "Yeah, my legs are just a bit sore," came the reply from the female Michelin man. "It's probably all that walking you're doing," I said, while thinking "And all the excess weight you're lugging around."

"No, it's not that," she replied. "I've started horseriding, and it takes a bit of getting used to."

As I start to nod in sympathy, one of my workmates, who's just stood up to visit the coffee machine, shakes his head, and says, "That poor fucking horse"

Apparently you could hear the sound of the slap from downstairs
(Godwin's Lawyer is more evil than Hitler, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 13:20, 2 replies)

Following Discussion of Tonsils...
Below should be a video taken of Boy2 when he had tonsilitis. As you may notice he appears to be having a slight difficulty with his breathing...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=yURfgSuv49k

Now you may be asking "Where is the pain in this?" to tell the truth I am not sure as when he woke up (just before the paramedics arrived in their large white taxi) he was as smiley and happy as could be. Within a few hours though we were presented with several medics discussing resucitation options in case of difficulty in the forthcoming operation.
(ferretygubbins, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 12:49, 4 replies)

Eve's Punishment, or Chickenlady's guide to women's health.
How convenient that in the week that the question is titled 'Ouch' I should go for a smear test. Fortunately technology has finally reached women's health and this unpleasant scraping of one's cervix in order to ensure death by Jade Goody doesn't follow. The test is no longer eye-wateringly painful, but merely uncomfortable, but more of that later. Being a woman - as some of you know - is fraught with pain and discomfort so I thought I'd share....

The joy of periods

Now, while these will continue until menopause at around the mid-fifties (not to be confused with the 1950s - they didn't even have sex then, let alone periods), they generally begin during the teenage years. For me this particular burden began when I was a 5'4" ten year old who wore size six shoes, size ten clothes and towered over most of the nuns at my convent primary school. The pain when periods began for me was mental and emotional.

Ouch factor - 1

When I was fifteen I began to experience pain with each passing month of joyous feminine existence. The pain was generally accompanied by vomiting - ever been in such pain that you vomit? Not nice, especially when you're having your first kiss.

Ouch factor - 4

The pain continued even after having children so much so that I'd lose large quantities of blood - far, far more than I should have lost. Generally the average woman will lose about an egg-cup full of blood during the five-ish days of her monthly period. I was able to measure how much I lost because about three years ago I went over to a Moon Cup - ladies, if you haven't tried one of these, you should - environmentally friendly and more importantly CHEAP! Anyway, using a Moon Cup you can see how much blood there is - yeah, it's not for the squeamish, but then all women have to get used to seeing their own blood each month. So, I was losing a cup full in about two hours....That's when I began passing out with pain.

Ouch factor - 6

So I decided to stop all of that with a Mirena IUD - no pain, virtually no periods, no babies - what's not to like?

Erm...the insertion.

Wait until you're in the middle of your period - hmm, nice and messy but an open cervix. Remove all lower clothing, lie on your back please, feet up towards your bottom then let your knees fall open. Elegant and sexy! Nice anglepoise lamp aimed at the action and a doctor and nurse both wondering where you got that wax job done. Out comes the first tool for the job...a large shiny speculum - gentlemen, google these and imagine that being stuck into your orifice and opened fully. The KY jelly is squirted liberally onto this and to be honest it looks like something Bender from Futurama would use when getting jiggy with the fax machine. The doctor then 'gently' shoves this into you - into that place that until your first cervical smear (they used to use the same kit) had only been used for fun and not as a mechanic's inspection pit. Once into place the doctor, who now appears to be wearing oily overalls and sucking breath in through his teeth as he assesses the damage, cranks it open - yes, these things OPEN UP so much so you can feel the breeze on your kidneys.

"Everything looks healthy there Ms Chickenlady. Right, I'll begin by putting in a sound to check the size of your uterus. This might be a little uncomfortable but the nurse will hold your hand, okay?"

You've got a tyre jack in my fanny, what do you think? I smile thinly and nod, all the while examining the crack on the ceiling and trying to not think about my own.

Out comes a knitting needle. Is this the doctor's way of telling me I'm about to become a mother again and I need to start on a pair of bootees and a matinee set? No, this is a sound. I thought he was just going to shout 'Hello!' between my knees and wait for the echo, but no, a 'sound' is actually a fuck off length of metal - a depth gauge if you like. I believe the Spanish Inquisition began first using them before their medical versatility was discovered.

In goes the knitting needle. Through the tyre jack. Through my insides until it's resting sharply on the back of my throat. Okay, it wasn't that far, but it just as well might have been. The mild discomfort that the doctor promised was a deep stab that made my eyes water. "My, my. How many children have you had? Ah, it was twins, wasn't it? They were large, weren't they? And you had a c-section - good thing really otherwise I suspect you'd be having surgery."

Thanks Doc. Yes, my reproductive organs are like the TARDIS - small narrow doorway to get in, but much bigger on the inside. In fact if I ever had any more children they could probably camp out in my uterus until they go to Uni.

Sod doing natural childbirth - having babies alters your insides enough as it is, if you can get a c-section and retain a tight drawstring silk purse rather than a saggy old sow's ear then DO IT. My insides may be cavernous but the entrance is as tight as an Emo's trouser leg - c-sections FTW!

Right, so the sound had done its measuring - it was like a magic show - I'm sure he pulled out hankies, a bunch of flowers and maybe a cockatoo dove. Now time for the IUD itself. Ha! Thought the sound was 'uncomfortable'? Welcome to hardcore S&M on the NHS! And you even get a nurse in uniform to hold your hand.

I glare at the ceiling and try to ignore how my ears are getting damp. After about three days it was finally over and the doctor slowly began to remove all the tools and I attempted to feebly cling to some dignity as I dressed.

On the upside I haven't passed out, had period pain or a period like before ever since.

Ouch factor - enough to cut off the circulation in the nurse's hand



And don't even get me on mammograms - just get someone to stamp on your tits.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 12:36, 30 replies)

Reaming the urethra
A mate of mine, Johnny, was in hellish pain when he went to have a pee one day. He was almost doubled up by it, and very little urine was coming out. Seeing as he works as a chef in a hospital he proceeded upstairs to be seen by a medical professional.

The rather nice lady doctor suspected (correctly as it turns out) that he had kidney or bladder stones, so asked him to remove his undergarments so she could take a look. "I'm going to have to handle your penis", she said. "On you go, lass - do whatever you like to it", replied Johnny, hoping for an end to the agony.

The diagnosis was confirmed. He had a blockage, most likely a kidney stone which had now passed to the bladder, so the immediate course of action was catheterisation. A plastic tube was stuck up his Jap's eye, which dislodged the offending stone, and allowed the backlog of piss to emerge. Instant relief.

So far so good. But Johnny had to have some sort of treatment (ultrasound, maybe? Im not a medic so I don't know) to break up the stone so it could be passed. This is not necessarily a rapid process, so the catheter was in place for a number of days.

It turns out that urinary catheters build up ureic encrustations on the bit that protrudes into the bladder. This means that after it's been there a while, a lump of scaly, crusty essence-of-piss forms on the end of it...and the catheter is then extracted down the same way that it went in.

He said that having it removed was more painful than the bladder stone itself. However, there was one side benefit: after he'd had his urethra reamed out by this lump of rough mineral, he found he spent much less time pissing, as the bore seemed to have increased markedly!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 12:00, 2 replies)