Everyone has heard of those accidents where you were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. But what about those accidents where you were at the right place at the right time? Could such an accident even exist? After you read the below, you'll know that it is too possible to be at the right place at the right time for a fracture.

Like a hawk my mother had been circling around and around Brigham circle for a parking space.
"Ugh I'm going to be late for my appointment!" She slammed her hand against the steering wheel in frustration; I wasn't sure if she was fed up with Boston's lack of parking or her own unwillingness to spend the $10 for Valet Parking. Finally a parking space had opened up and she pulled the old Volvo into the tight space.
She lugged out the stroller from the trunk and shook it out into proper shape - as if the carriage were some rumpled shirt,
"Come on, come on," she unstrapped me from my car seat and popped me into the stroller. It was the kind with a lap bar that went across my chest, a space for each of my legs to pop through, and there was even a seat belt but this time she hadn't put the little strap over me -- she figured the chest bar that went across would suffice.

Rushing across the street she pushed me full speed ahead over the subway tracks. I probably laughed thinking my mother's frantic rush was some kind of amusement park ride, the stroller stumbled over Boston's cobble stones and ripped up sidewalks. From the stroller I watched the rush of the bottom half of lamp posts, the blur of people's legs hurrying past, and the metallic silver of meter posts flying by. We were nearing the entrance of Brigham & Women's Hospital, and just as we were going up onto the sidewalk the stroller's front wheel hit a jagged piece of cement sticking out from the curb cut and I shot up, over the lap bar, and lay crumpled on the sidewalk in front of the stroller.
"Ohhhh noooo.." Was the last thing I heard before my mother scooped me back up, put me back into the stroller; the whole time I was screaming, and it was before I understood how to properly communicate what had broken, and where the fracture was. She quickly switched the stroller into a reclined position and continued to rush into the hospital -- this time with more urgency than ever.

I don't remember much from this incident and I'm thankful that I don't recall the pain that must have come from being a projectile object that crashed onto the cement.
Years later I can still point out to you exactly where it was that I flew in the middle of the streets of Boston. However where that jagged rut of cement was, you can now see that they have covered over the uneven levels of cement - smoothing it over so that now you'll barely feel a thing as you cross the threshold. 

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Boston hospitals, there is a nifty internal bridge that connects Brigham & Women's with Children's Hospital. So on that afternoon my mother continued to race through her doctor's office, through the bridge that also happens to connect with the 2nd floor of Children's Hospital -- the orthopedic and radiology department.
You see what I mean? Right place and time for that accident!