Picture of the Day: This date in 1993

Mother's Day holds special significance in our household. Not only are we big fans of maternity, but the holiday remains emblematic of the most tragic and retrospectively entertaining episode of my childhood...not to mention the worst day of my parents' lives.

As you might have guessed, the sad freckled little boy in that picture is me. I'm wearing a body cast that ranges from the bottom of my left foot to the top of my chest. My legs are stabilized by a horizontal rod that was built into the cast. Altogether, it's visual proof that God has a sparkling sense of humor.

Both the elaborate medical apparatus and the ensuing Kodak moment were the aftermath of Mother's Day 1993. On that day, my gift to my Mom was a remarkable stunt. Indeed, I managed to sustain the most statistically improbable injury to the human skeletal structure: somehow, against all odds, I broke my femur.

Some background info: This might be a surprise, but I was a showboat in my younger years. As you can see in the photo, I was an adorable little boy with sensational blond hair, a winsome smile, and a mischevious pair of blue eyes. I was quite the spaz in the classroom and on the playground because, hey, who the hell could stay mad at me? I was reckless, dangerous, and my favorite movie was Young Guns starring Emilio Estevez. The world was my stage, and I terrorized anyone who dared to interfere.

Some more background info: In an effort to get the kids outside, my Dad bought a swingset that featured two swings, one slide, a couple ladders, and a row of monkey bars. Little did he know that a structure designed for fun and exercise would instead become the source of pain, agony, and emotional trauma.

After its assembly, the swingset was an instant hit amongst the neighborhood schoolchildren. The collective enthusiasm extended into the winter of 1992, when several friends attended a playdate at my house. Because of the frigid conditions, everyone decided that the monkey bars were too slippery to cross without removing one's gloves/mittens.

As the local hero and authority on recreational gymnastics, I insisted that I could cross the monkey bars while wearing my GI Joe gloves. Not quite. Midway through the attempt, my hands slipped and I violently collided with the frozen tundra of 16 Robbins St. The result? I shattered my elbow and required three pins to set it properly. Note the camouflage cast and the Optimus Prime sweatshirt:



For most well-adjusted children, this would have been a humbling experience from which one could develop character. To the contrary, I learned that injuries create attention, ambidexterity is awesome, and asking someone to sign your cast is an endearing social tactic.

That brings us to May 9, 1993. It was a wonderful time to be alive. Bill Clinton was in the inaugural year of a spotless presidential term. Al Pacino won an Oscar for his stunning portrayal of Al Pacino. Janet Jackson not only had a functional wardrobe, but also her single "That's the Way Love Goes" began an eight-week stint atop the charts.

Anyway, 16 months after I broke my arm I was back at the scene of the crime, this time attempting to impress my family with a daring jump off the swing. In the spirit of Mother's Day I called everyone outside, got on the swing, generated momentum, and gracefully lept skyward.

Much like John F. Kennedy Jr., I didn't stick the landing.

The unfortunate combination of gravity, earth, and youthful frailty left me crumpled in a heap and crying uncontrollably. Despite my flair for the dramatic, my parents' laughter quickly turned into concern and they called 911. Enter the local paramedics.

Like all renaissance men, I've witnessed some astonishing forms of incompetence: Ashlee Simpson "singer," my brother's driving test, Chien-Ming Wang, etc. But the song and dance of volunteer EMTs assessing, treating, and mobilizing my serious leg ailment has to take the cake. Needless to say, nothing about their performance suggested "emergency," "medical," or "technician."

Their initial diagnosis was a fractured fibula. For those of you unfamiliar with the human anatomy, specifically the leg, here's an instructive diagram:



To use the parlance of our times: EPIC FAIL. In fairness, this was 1993; hospital dramas like ER and Grey's Anatomy had yet to educate obsessive American TV viewers, so perhaps I can forgive their inconceivable mistake. Nonetheless, unamused by the buffoonery, my Mom delicately pointed out that I was experiencing pain in my thigh, not my lower leg. Once the paramedics correctly identified the injury as a fractured femur, one of the brilliant EMTs said something along the lines of "Yeah, well, it's harder to tell with kids." Oh really, doctor? Let's revisit our leg diagram:




Despite the shenanigans, I was safely transferred to the hospital and successfully confined to the ridiculous body cast. For three months, I couldn't walk, swim, or go to school. Worst of all, I needed assistance every time I had to go to bathroom; believe me, there are few things more degrading than a bedpan.

In the end, everything happens for a reason. Because I broke my elbow, I became amidextrous. Because I broke my femur, I finally encountered the bitter taste of humility. I also discovered the joys of Mario & Luigi, but that's another story for another time. More important, every Mother's Day I give my Mom an intentionally stupid gift. Before she can express her disappointment, I joke "Hey, at least, I didn't break my leg!" Somehow, we regard this as funny and charming and it never gets old. Like Janet Jackson prophesized, that's the way love goes.

And since I dragged you through another boring personal story, here's an SNL Digital Short starring Chuck's favorite entertainment icon ...Susan Sarandon.