There’s something I haven’t mentioned.

But first…when I was just a toddler, my mother began calling me Calamity Jane. Why, you ask? Because I was her child most likely to come home with dark bruises, or a splinter the size of a two-by-four, or a broken bone, or shards of glass in my feet.

***This Marquis de Sade-esque, Chinese finger-puzzle device was not as fun as it looks.***

I was constantly charging through streams and woods and climbing trees. I started ice skating at five. Skiing at eight. So perhaps many of my injuries were easily explained. Still the Calamity Jane moniker carried with it more than a hint of clumsiness on my part, which I noted each time my mother rolled her eyes after I’d had some sort of misadventure.

And now I’ve done it again. This coming after the last few years where I’ve met more surgeons and physical therapists and chiropractors and massage therapists than I care to mention. Note that while most of my surgical adventures have been to shore up long-ago sports injuries that have disintegrated with age, this was not one of those times.

Simply put, I tripped in a pothole while out on my morning walk. And to make matters worse, I cried! Something I didn’t do when I fractured my spine while officiating a football game or breaking my leg while umpiring baseball. Nor did I weep after two rotator cuff surgeries or cervical spinal fusion. Yet, there I sat, butt on the ground, clutching my arm, screaming like a five-year old with her hair on fire.

In my defense, the injury was pretty gruesome. My wrist was going in a decidedly wrong direction. When it became apparent that I was in shock and couldn’t walk, my sweetie pie placed me off the road and charged up the hill like Superman to get the car. Then Ryan returned and whisked me off to the hospital.

After the emergency room folks took a good look, it was announced that I had broken three bones, and—because I never do anything halfway—I’d dislocated it as well. “We call that a skateboarder’s injury,” a nurse commented later, which was a much better story than taking a header while walking, but one I doubted anyone would believe.

After a quick examination, a pleasant doctor asked to have a specific device retrieved, then turned to me and said, “I think this will be more humane.” My doped-up brain hung onto that last word, but it wouldn’t be until later that I understood.

***Considering that Calamity Jane was a crack shot and a trick rider, I’m guessing she wasn’t the least bit clumsy.***

After suspending my arm in a Marquis de Sade-esque, Chinese finger-puzzle device for 30 minutes, she squinted at my hanging appendage. “I’d hoped that might straighten it out,” she said. Then the doctor placed one hand around my black-and-blue wrist, gently traced one finger down the inside of my arm, and yanked.

I screamed.

Unperturbed, she put her palm on the dislocated spot and pushed.

I screamed again.

I screamed so loud, the entire, bustling ER came to a halt. A nurse stuck her head in and enquired if everything was alright.

The doctor nodded, then turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said.

I faded a bit after that. But later I awoke to a kindly man with a big smile staring down at me. “We’re going to have to fix your arm.”

The next day that nice surgeon pinned my broken parts back together. I guess he straightened my wrist out too. I didn’t ask how, since I don’t really want to think about it. I haven’t yet seen the results, as I’m still in a cast.

And here’s where I want an “Atta girl!”, since I’m still a bit embarrassed by all that crying and screaming. Three-and-a-half days after surgery, I boarded a plane—one of five on my schedule—so I could get to a book tour in Indiana. I got through five live events and several TV interviews, but only because Ryan did everything for me. I needed a wheelchair to traverse the airports. I couldn’t dress myself and was barely able to even brush my teeth. I can still see him lugging all our stuff around like a pack mule.

So, yeah! I’m a trooper! And I want a T-shirt that says so.

And, of course, Ryan deserves one too.

As for Calamity Jane, the woman was a renowned trick rider and a crack shot, evidence that she was clearly no klutz. So, from here on out, I will proudly wear her name.

Your Forgotten Sons

Inspired by a true story

Anne Montgomery

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?