This story goes out to my friend Mary, my mum, and my godfather. Don't do drugs, Mary.

T'was Christmastime in the South, and all was... well, fairly warm. My family and I had traveled down to my grandparents' house for a jolly good time, right? Well, things would soon take a turn. My Uncle Robert brought his daughter over to Nana and Pop's place, since he lived near us. I barely remember his daughter, and I don't care to meet her again. The reason why is because I have this fear that whenever she sees me, she'll think " Oh, it's that girl who broke my arm right in front of me!"

Yup. That's right. I broke my arm the day before Christmas. How, you may ask? Well, this is that story. Thank you for picking up The Christmas Trip, and let's get into it.

I was talking with my uncle's daughter and walking backwards while talking. I had been playing with my dad's old toys that my grandparents had kept, Fisher-Price playsets from the 60s and 70s, ripoff Barbies, plushies, little cooking sets, and my favorite, a big green gun with an orange tip. If you held the trigger, it would make this loud clicking sound. That was another reason I liked it; it didn't need any foam bullets, since I had a low pain tolerance and those things stung like a mother. As I was walking backwards, I stepped on the gun and slipped. As I slipped, the toy shifted under me and I landed on my arm, on the toy. In the next two seconds, my arm became floppier and more painful than it had ever been before.

I believe my screech was enough to clue my mum in, along with my inability to prop myself up. Her and my father sat me down in a chair and gave me an ice pack. After a few minutes of panic, and intense embarrasment on my end, I was rushed off to the hospital. A fairly painful ride. I had never noticed how bumpy the roads to Nana and Pop's were until my bones were floating around in my arm like fishies in a tank. Eventually, after much whinging on my part, we made it to the hospital.

The waiting room was mostly just people who looked sick or vaguely uncomfortable, no one else who was obviously injured, like me, was in the room. I don't remember much about the waiting room, except the colors orange and green, for some reason. I think the walls or rug were green, and the scratchy waiting room chairs were orange. Polyester or nylon, I think. Time felt frozen, and staring at the night sky through the windows made me feel as though I was in space. I felt strange. I had never broken a bone before, and I'd never been more embarrased in my life.

I cycled between glancing nervously at my mum, staring at the clock, and scrutinizing  the polypropylene plants in every other corner of the room. For some reason, the pain had dulled down by now, and I became invested in those damn plants. I was fairly distressed by them. "Why are they so green, and why do they look so crunchy? Are they chewy? I don't like them," I thought. Please don't ask me why I disliked those plants so much, I really don't have an answer.

Finally I got into a hospital bed. My room was all white and narrow, with nothing but two chairs, a side table or two, and a television tilted to me above the door. 

The doctor walked in, a tall, pretty lady with a Christmas sweater of a gingerbread man breaking his leg, with the text "Oh, Snap!" Awkward, I know. The doctor even said that when she saw me. I chuckled, albeit dryly, as she pointed to the wall, which had one of those little pain-o-meters with the green, yellow, orange, and red faces, along with little numbers under them from one to ten. 

As I said, it was one of the most painful things I ever felt when the bone first snapped. In three places, I might add. But as I turned to the wall, I very calmly responded "I dunno; when I first broke it, it was a ten. But now, it's kinda mellowed out to a five," which made both the doctor and my mum laugh. 

The doctor nodded, and I can't really remember what she said, but I think she then mentioned they would need to put me under to do a minor surgery to rearrange my bones. I was cool with this, since I kinda expected I would need to be knocked out for it; it would hurt like hell otherwise. I was fine with this. I mean, I couldn't really say no. I figured, it'll just be like sleeping, right?

Wrong. I couldn't be more incorrect.

I felt like a wilting flower as more doctors and nurses came in, IV stand in hand. I hate IVs, I hate putting any needle in or near me. It just makes me wanna shiver out of my skin. I flinched as they inserted the IV into the bend of my elbow, and I visibly shivered from the cool temperature of the drug laced saline flowing into my veins. 

From what I remember, it felt like quite a few minutes before I passed out, but according to my mum, all I could say before I passed out was "Mum, I don't like this." 

Little did I know, they had given me, a nine-year-old girl at the time, ketamine.

And here is where things go downhill.

What is time? Time is a concept. In my experience with ketamine, it wasn't a concept at all, it simply didn't exist. You know those videos where one video or texture is repeated over and over again until it's a checker pattern of one thing? That's what I saw. But the video was me in a hospital bed, being pushed by blurry-faced nurses through non-existent doors like in those dramatic movies. Everyone was talking and echoing around me, and things were slowing down and speeding up at random. I could hear my voice and see myself sometimes, but I couldn't move my body in this blur of black, white, and various shades of brown and beige. It was almost like how people describe sleep paralysis. I mentioned time at the beginning of this because this felt like forever, but I wasn't scared I wouldn't wake up or anything. I was kinda at peace, yet incredibly disturbed by it all at the same time. And then, I woke up.

Everything was bright, as it would usually be after waking up, but the LED lights and the monochrome room of the hospital wasn't helping. I remember mum being at my side, and I was whacked out of my brain. I really can't remember anything I said, I just know that I turned on the television and saw Unikitty, so that was pretty cool. I also saw Bob's Burgers, but it wasn't very interesting. Eventually, we got out to the car, and I was yet again, whacked out. Not even in a fuzzy, euphoric "Woah, dude," way, rather a sort of "What is life, and why do I feel so sleepy?" way.

Life was an uncomfortable, vaguely crunchy blur for the few months it took for my arm to get fully back to normal. But, of course, my right arm is now completely fine. I would be concerned if it wasn't, really, considering this happened six years ago. But, why write this story? I know everything that happened, and only a few people will probably see this. Well, believe it or not, there is a reason behind it. A friend and I were having a conversation about drugs.

Yes, that's what this whole story comes down to. Drugs.

She mentioned how her mum said she'd let her try an edible when she's eighteen, and I told her, using my ex-raver mum's knowledge plus my YouTube iceberg knowledge, to never try certain drugs. My rule was that if you have to snort or inject it, it's a bad idea. And, of course, I mentioned ketamine, saying "Don't try it, I should know." She responded with "Yeah- wait, how would you know?!" and I told her the story you just read. As a joke, I said I should make it into a book, to which she told me I totally should. I giggled, and came up with the name "Broken-Armed Girl in the Hospital on Ketamine," to which my friend's brother added "No clickbait, gone wrong." Because of that painful albeit rather humorous butchery of my idea, my mum told me I should name it The Christmas Trip, because it's a double entendre. This happened on Christmas of 2019, on a trip to my grandparent's, and it entailed a bad trip. Hence the name.

So, what is the point of this story? Many stories, whether real or fiction, end with a message or lesson. Well, the point of this one isn't a D.A.R.E. style "Don't do drugs, kids!" story but rather more a "My experience with ketamine sucked, so think about it before you try it" story.