Contributed by Shell Suber
When I was 7, my parents left my 5 year old bother and me in the care of my 14, 12 and 10 year old cousins in Pennsylvania and went out to one of those adults-only-drinking-wine-in-the-sun-all-day events that horse people love so much.
Naturally, an atomic pillow fight erupted not long after they left. I was sent flying backwards down a long, steep flight of wooden stairs in their old farmhouse. I spent the rest of a very long day at the bottom of those steps holding my arm.
When the adults finally returned – tired and well lubricated – I didn’t get the sympathy I felt my condition warranted. Instead, I got unhelpful advise like “Just move it around” and “Do this and it will feel better” (accompanied by giant circular motion with arm). It was decided I was whiny and irritating and sent to bed.