A Very John Dunn Christmas by John Dunn

On December 24, 2007 I was on my way to the worst kind of Christmas party. Not one with family, one with friends, friends of my parents. With strangers, who were, for the most part, are over three times your age, rubbing elbows with you in every room. I was looking forward to a night of awkward boredom. My parents made the usual claim: “There will probably be kids your age there.” Yeah sure whatever you say, mom, I thought. This did little to lighten my spirits for two reasons: one, she was lying and I knew it; and two, even if this was true the outcome would be inevitable: nine-year-olds making a pitiful attempt at making small talk.
There was no snow on the ground, as I remember it, but plenty of ice. I was dreading the night ahead, but the car unconsciously sped down the road regardless of my wishes. The only thing keeping me going was the promise of delicious food. We arrive at our destination and the car slowed before stopping in front of the house.
“We’re here.”My mom said in a cheery voice.
I was sitting in the back and was the last one out of the car. I lingered behind, staring up at the unwanted holiday festivities. I was wearing heelys, which were considered cool at the time. The wheels were in, but I wasn’t rolling, nor did I see the ice ahead of me. I was just about to point my toes upward, lean back, and put weight on my heels, and glide across the stone walk-way that led to the stairs which, in turn, led to the front door of the house. My feet came out from under me incredibly fast, but when I was falling, the whole world seemed to be traveling in slow-motion. I was in the air for around three seconds before the pavement greeted me; I closed my eyes just before impact. My open hand was the first thing to hit the ground, and, therefore took the impact. When my whole body was on the ground, the world snapped back into real time. I felt pain in my right wrist and simultaneously let out a subtle gasp of pain. I was, give or take ten steps from the stone steps that led to the front door of the house ahead. I rose, tightly clutched my wrist, and ran inside. I can still hear the pitter-patter of my feet on the stone walk-way.
I entered the warm house and the smell of delicious food was overwhelming. I was in pain and breathing heavily. My dad, who was the closest one to me, did not notice.
“Ooooow” I said in an exaggerated voice in attempt to gain my dad’s attention.
He turned around and saw my dominant left hand clutching my broken right arm. He looked very worried.
“What’s wrong?” He asked in an equally worried voice. “I fell and my arm really hurts.” I say. He sits me down on a chair in a room adjacent to the door.
My family fills in. My parents ask me the standard questions: “Where does it hurt? How bad is it?” And the Elephant in the room”Is it broken.” I answered the first two questions, but my nine year old mind refused to accept that I had broken my arm on Christmas Eve. Finally, my dad conducted a test that he called “The old hockey test.” He lightly took my injured right wrist and asked me to pull away. He wasn’t even really holding on to my arm, my arm was just resting on his hand. However, this was enough. I made a very brief, half hearted attempt that resulted in a failure that no rational person could even consider close to being a success. My arm didn’t even move.
“OK it’s definitely broken.” My dad said in a rushed voice as he stood up. Being nine years old I knew deep down that he was right but still silently stood by my original argument that it was not broken. As much as I would love to go into detail about my hospital adventure, that’s a whole different story about a very John Dunn Christmas.