From the accident files of Donald R. Sorenson, ESQ.

So I was sitting at my computer, trying to think of something interesting to write, when I started to think of my two oldest girls, Alexandra and Lorelai. Now, these two precious little souls are very different people. Alexandra is more of a dress up, elegant kind of girl, while Lorelai is more of a rough and tumble, get dirty kind of girl. In fact, I go as far to say to people that I don't need to have a son, because I have Lorelai. (I try not to say this around her anymore, since for a while there she started to tell people that she was Daddy's boy.)

But there is one thing that they do have in common, and I am afraid that it comes from their old man. They both seem to hurt themselves doing normal things. Now I wouldn't go as far to say that they are klutzes. It is more like they don't think about what they are about to do. For an example, last night I was leaving Lowes, and Lorelai was riding in the cart. Alexandra decided it would be great fun to run in front of the cart, and jump onto the bar in front and go for a ride. The only problem is, I did not realize what she was trying to do, so I just kept on going. She ended up getting her toe ran over by the shopping cart wheel, and since all she had on were her Mickey Mouse Crocs, there wasn't much protection there. So because of that, I had to listen to her cry all the way home about how her toe was not only broken, but how it would need to have shots, stitches, and a cast on top of it.

Well, it made me think of the numerous times I ended up in the Hospital when I was younger for injuries that I inflicted upon myself. Whether it was jumping off the bathroom counter and cutting my chin open, requiring 4 stitches, (I was 5) running through a set of bushes that had broken pieces of mirror the neighbor kids stuffed in them, and slicing my left thigh open and getting 5 stitches, (I was about 12) breaking my wrist playing football at the park, (13) and shooting my hand with my bb gun, having to have it surgically removed, which led to getting my hand stapled up. (Summer before my freshman year) There are other "highlights" of my injury-plagued teens, but the one that takes the cake is what I did to my shins in September of 1994.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was now an upper classmen in High School, and it felt pretty cool to know I only had 2 more years of school. We had a camping trip/sand dune motorcycle riding activity planned for Priests quorum on the weekend, and although I had never ridden a motorcycle before, I figured that I could catch on fairly quickly, and have a blast. So on Friday after school, we loaded up and headed to the Juniper Dunes for our trip. On the trip I believe there were 6 of us. It was me, Donny Hatch, Scott Bowman, Jeff Smith, Chris Mace, and Adam Durst. Maybe some of the younger guys went too, but those are the ones I remember.

So we set up camp, and it is time to start riding the motorcycles. I had a hard time figuring out how to shift, so I ended up just hard shifting all the time. I rode around for about 20 minutes, and I only crashed one time. Not bad for a first time rider. That night we went to bed, not knowing what lay in store for us the next morning.

We woke up, had breakfast, and got ready to ride to some lake that was nearby. Off we went. Now I do not remember how long we were riding for, if it was 5 minutes, or 10. All I knew was the I was really digging riding a motorcycle. It was such a rush with he wind blowing in your face. I had thoughts of doing it more often when I got home. And then it happened. I was cruising along, when all of a sudden I came to a cliff. By Adam's account, it was about a 30-40 foot cliff, and I flew right off of it. While I was flying though the air, my feet came off the foot pegs, and it must have looked as if I was doing a spread eagle. At the bottom of the cliff, the sand rose up as if it was a jumping ramp. Well, I hit that ramp with my front wheel, which caused my legs to come flying back to the Motorcycle, and my shins, which were only covered with the blue jeans I had on, hit the foot pegs. At the same time, the bike was going over the sand ramp, and my chest slammed against the fuel tank. The bike made a great jump over the ramp, but I was not on the bike, I was sprawled out on the ground.

Now, my first thought was that I was OK, other than the fact it felt like I had broken my ribs. I tried to stand up, and fell down, and that is when I noticed the holes in my pant legs. I rolled up my pant legs, and was staring straight at both of the bones in my legs, and the pool of blood that was forming in them. About this time, a couple other people crashed also, (We found out later that we camped on the wrong side of the lake, and were heading in a direction that was a lot harder to ride in) and everyone was coming back to check out what had transpired.

I was sitting up, looking at my legs, and I started to swear every swear that has been sworn before. Did I mention this was a church trip? Here I was, speaking like a sailor in front of my bishop and other leaders of my ward. But I didn't care. Before I left for this trip, my mother had told me I better not come home hurt, because she didn't want to have to take me to the hospital. Again. So much for that hope.

So there I was, looking at my legs, with everyone huddled around me. It was now that I did something I will never forget. I was looking at my legs, and didn't feel any pain. I made a comment about how I must be in shock, because it didn't hurt. Then I did something that grossed everyone out. I took my index finger, and started to rub my bone in my leg. I believe when I did that, someone threw up, and another person almost passed out. But I thought to myself, "When would I ever get a chance to touch my own bone again? Never!"

Next, they loaded me onto the 4 wheeler that we had there, and they carted me back to camp. What a very uncomfortable ride that was!. We got back to camp, and they drugged me up with 8 or 9 Advil, wrapped bandages around my legs, and we loaded up to go home. We got back to my parents house, and they were all outside, enjoying the Fall day. The guys picked me up to carry me to the house, and my Mom started to say, "Ha Ha Donald, so funny to pretend that you are hurt." Of course that comment sent me thru the roof. I demanded that they put me down, and show my Mom what happened. All she could say was, "Get in the car, lets go to the hospital....again!"

At the hospital, they got me all stitched up. What I remember about that particular trip is the guy next to me who had his cheek bitten off by is aunts little dog. He had the cheek flesh in a little baggy with ice.

So, you might want to ask, "What was the worst part of the trip, Donald?" I will tell you. It was not the wreck, or the ride back to camp, or getting shots in my shins to numb them up to stitch them, or even the stitches themselves. It was having the Dr. take off the bandages that the guys wrapped up my legs with. Lets just say I lost a lot of leg hair that day.

Oh yes, that scars on your shins don't seem to heel up very fast either. Here it is, over 13 years later, and my shins still look like this:

Hopefully, my girls grow out of hurting themselves long before I did. But if they don't, at least I will have good stories to tell them while they sit in the E.R. Until next time....