About ten years ago, I fractured an obscure bone in my ankle doing a kickflip bs 50-50 on a slanted ledge.
Imagine this: You slip out as soon as you land on the ledge, then somehow manage to sit down on the ledge on top of your back foot, twisting it outwards. It's such an unnatural position, my whole leg functioned as a spring, bouncing me up as something cracked deep inside my ankle.
I then drove myself to the ER, having to gas and clutch with the same foot. Once there, Dr. Moron told me it's not broken. I told him that it most certainly is. he told me to go to the hospital if I was so certain. I asked them how to get there. He asked me how I got to the ER. I told him that I drove myself. He told me to drive to the hospital. Thanks Dr. Moron. However, by that time I was in a mild state of shock, so I blasted some Bowie and sang my ass off the entire 40 minute drive to the hospital, feeling no pain.
Once x-rays confirmed that there was indeed a fracture, I was admitted because they had higher priority patients to take care of. I was left in a hospital bed and told that once the evening shift started, a different doctor would come up and decide whether I needed surgery, etc. A few hours later, who shows up to tell me that I indeed need surgery? Apparently Dr. Moron has a second gig. It was pretty glorious.
And it doesn't end there. At this point, surgery was impossible until the swelling would go down, so I had to spend five days not being able to get out of bed, next to a WW2 vet who had forgotten anything about his life except the war, and an obese biker dude who ripped his leg off in an accident and wouldn't stop audibly chewing nicotine gum.
On the fifth day, a new doctor enters my room. Let's call him Dr. Genius. He inspects my foot for 15 seconds before asking a nurse why the hell I was set to have surgery. He had me on my way home within hours. Thanks again, Dr. Moron.
I still do kickflip bs 50-50s all the fucking time.