I've had three bones broken. I broke my right index finger in high school catching a softball. I broke my big toe on my right foot just before we left on a month trip where I was to drive from California to Boston with my two kids. That wasn't fun, especially since we planned to do a lot of walking. It wasn't a bad break, but I had to wear that stupid shoe on the Boston history trail and it was HOT.
The worst break was in 1993. I broke my ankle running across a park at a home school picnic. I didn't see the drop off in front of me. I had just driven over for a few minutes from a nearby private school in which I'd been displaying my books for the summer. I was in the middle of moving the contents of two rooms back into the back room where they lived during the school year. I went to the park to hand out brochures. I was alone. Two of the Boy Scouts in the group had to carry me to the car after they called my husband to come and get me to take me to the emergency room. And we still had to finish moving all those books. I had a little help from my friends. It hurt, but my pride probably hurt more than anything because I'd been so stupid.