Brandon is twelve years old, and not a regular patient of mine. By chance, I’ve seen him three times in the last six months while working the weekend urgent care clinic, each time for injuries–all the result of some daredevil thing or another gone wrong.
This time Brandon had sprained his ankle jumping off his garage roof–something he does often because, well, “I like to jump off the garage roof.” ‘Nuf sed.
As Brandon tried out his crutches I tried to put in a pitch for toning down the mayhem, hoping he’d connect the dots, say, between riding a bike without brakes and the head injury he’d suffered a couple of months ago. Or the wrist he’d broken before that in a light-saber/baseball bat duel with a friend.
Me: “So, do you see a pattern in all this?”
Brandon: “Yeah. How come you’re always here when I hurt myself? I’m starting to think you’re bad luck.”