After finding out there was a bullet in my arm, I hoped that was what was causing the pain in my arm. I figured that if a bullet was removed, there would be less trauma and healing than if it was torn ligaments. But I was to have no such luck.
More Personal Voice Features
I was having trouble with my shoulder this summer. The pain increased during the two times I helped my son move, but I thought that after we finished, it would ease up. The pain did taper off, but it was still almost unbearable. I finally decided I had to have it checked.
When I lived in Buffalo, New York, in the early 1980s, some of us young men that were there made friends with an old bachelor. His last name was Hatzenbuler, so we all called him Hatz. He was the ultimate collector, and to me, his house was stacked from one end to the other with useless junk.
With ten children, it seemed like somebody always forgot something. Sometimes I would take time out from my day and run get the needed item. But often what one of our children was missing was something that was left at home. Donna, my wife, often had to take the forgotten item in to whichever school the child attended.
Some of us were visiting after church, and since Thanksgiving had just passed, the topic of conversation turned to turkeys. Our neighbor had one that had become rather mean. He was telling about it and how he would never raise a turkey again. Our young fourteen-year-old neighbor, McKenzie, said, "We had a really mean rooster. But then he had a therapy session, and everything changed."