News Flash

New Study on Birthday Bumps Reveals Nasty Truths

By Yogababy, BBC

Friday 16, 2010

It's your Birthday! For most young people, these words conjure up happy images. It means parties, presents and a sense of growth and power. But for many of the nation's elderly, these words have traumatic associations. And it's not just the feeling of life slipping by as they get older. A new study by the American Institute of Geriatrics has revealed that more than 3000 senior citizens are seriously injured yearly by one of the most cherished of birthday traditions - the birthday bump.

The study, conducted by Prof. Henry Gustavsson of the AIG and Dr. Jason McNamara of Johns Hopkins University, was a broad study conducted over 10 years and studied over 300 thousand elderly people.

The study is widely considered a landmark in the field of geriatrics and has received great acclaim from peers.

It's Gets Worse With Time

"It's groundbreaking", said Miriam Ockley, a senior researcher at Johns Hopkins, "I believe it has opened the eyes of a lot of people and exposed birthday bumps for what they are. One of the report's major contributions is that it establishes a clear correlation between age and severity of injury suffered. In simple terms, older people get hurt more if you bump and kick them really hard. It's one of those things that make sense when someone's done the hard research and shown you the results, but would never strike you in a million years. That's greatness."

The study reveals that the birthday bumps are especially severe for the elderly, but can also cause severe trauma for the middle aged. Prof. Gustavsson recalls the case of one 45 year old man who had to be hospitalised after his sons - both on their high school football teams - gave him the full 45.

The study found that people of all races were equally prone to the injuries. It also showed that women were more likely to suffer injuries than men. However, the big, overriding factor seemed to be age.

"One of the reasons the study is so important is that it has shown that, as people get older, the number of bumps and kicks increases." said John Oswald of Massachussetts General Hospital. "Not only are older people more fragile, they also have to take more kicks up the,.. erm,.... backside."

Most middle aged people, however, are able to resist the bumps. "They can run, they can hit out, they can book vacations so they're in a different country on their birthday", said Allison Pratt, a senior citizens' advocate, "But once they get older, these things become more difficult. One of my clients managed to hold out for 25 years. They got him in the end though."

And when that happens, the outcomes are ugly. "When your arse has been spared for decades and suddenly gets, what... 70, maybe 75 hard kicks, it's caught off guard. I just came from the hospital. One of my clients has it really bad - he's 88." added Pratt.

Hidden Shame

A big reason why the problem wasn't revealed before now is the reluctance of the elderly to go to the authorities. "They're your family", said one respondent, "I mean, you don't want the police to take them away. Plus, if they go to jail for it, I'll have to face charges of my own. My mother was 66 when we got hold of her - she never walked again. So I just said I fell... like everyone else."

Advocates believe less than one in ten bump victims approach the police. "Oh definitely", said Pratt, "In fact, that could be an understatement. Some of us think it could be even less - like one in five. One thing is clear, though: It's a big problem and something's got to be done."

Criticism

The study does have its share of detractors, though. Martin Blumenthal of the the University of British Columbia said, "The study has its points. But really, it's much too early to tell. The study claims a positive correlation of injury with age, but Weiss et. al. (2007) and McHale et. al. (2007) have shown that birthday bumps on one year olds also tend to cause severe trauma, while ten year olds are fine - so the age correlation may not really mean much. I believe we should wait for more studies before taking any major steps."

Public opinion on the results is divided. Some say that it's time the government stepped in and did something about this. Others, like Keith "Bud" Douglas, 62, say that increased governmental meddling is precisely what this is all about.

"It's just a ruse to get that darn Obami more power. Birthday bumps never hurt anyone", he said from his wheelchair," I kicked the shit out of my friends, and my friends kicked the shit out of me and we're all just fine. It's traditions like these that have made this country what it is, and I'll be darned if some pansy tries to mess with 'em."

Bob

Bob the whale – a tragedy in 80 tons

Chapterlet 1: Ennui

Consider the ocean. Vast empty desert of water, stretching as far as whalesong can reach. Serene too. At least below the surface. A group of highly intelligent creatures with well developed brains are floating, apparently without aim or purpose, in that blue expanse.

These are whales.

They swim.

And they swim.

Then they swim some more.

Occasionally, they yell and click at each other.

Then they swim.

One of nature's most intelligent creations and all they do is fucking swim. Whales are the most bored creatures on earth.

All whales are bored. But they don't know it. They have never been otherwise. But now meet Bob. Bob is bored and he knows it. Meet Andy too. Andy isn't bored. He's special.

Andy: Hey Bob! Wassup!?! Wanna do some'n today!?!

Bob (giving Andy the stinkeye): Fuck off!

Andy (interested): Why whatcha doon!?!

Bob: What the fuck do you think!?! I'm swimming! Fucking swimming! That's all we ever do! Swim! Swim! Motherfucking swim!

Andy considers this. Bob's right. He IS swimming. So is Andy. They're both swimming. Andy is swimming with Bob. What's motherfucking!?!

Andy: Bob, what's motherfucking!?!

Bob: Forget it.

Andy (forgetting it immediately): OK. Hey Bob!?! Wanna do some'n today!?!

Bob's response scares Andy away. Bob's been a lot like this lately. All the whales have noticed. It's a phase. That's what the elders say, anyway.

Chapterlet 2: Visions of paradise

Under azure skies and a golden sun, the Paradise sailed serenely on the calm, blue sea. Rich folk lazed on sun decks sipping cocktails. Or read books. Or played tennis. Or swam in swimming pools. Or did any one of many things that they could have done had they just stayed at home.

Eventide. A band assembled on deck. The strains of Sinatra made themselves heard. People danced. And then, suddenly, shouts rang out. "Whale off to starboard!" There followed the commotion that always ensues after someone says, "Port!" or "Starboard!". Some folks ran to starboard, others to port and some to the stern. No one saw anything. People milled about aimlessly until, finally, 'Starboard' was sorted out. Everyone went to starboard. Then the guy who'd shouted it said he was very sorry, but he'd gotten confused - goodness knows how - but he'd meant to say 'Port' all along. Everyone called him a twat and crossed over.

They saw Bob.

He'd been swimming apart from the pod (he’d been doing that for days at a time lately) and had happened to see the ship in the distance. He'd approached and been entranced. Not only was the sight of this creature a welcome break from the monotony of the ocean, but from this wondrous beast emanated the most beautiful of sounds. None of the screeching that his companions liked to call 'song'. This was proper singing, he thought. This was... 'music' - he felt the word form unbidden in his mind. And then the music had stopped and lots of things on top of this being had come out to look at him. He felt self conscious. He dived below hoping no one would be offended by his curiosity. It suddenly occurred to him that this creature was much larger than he, and that he should probably be scared. But it seemed so gentle. Indeed, it had ignored him entirely. It was only the little creatures on its back who had come to see him.

And then he remembered. At the end of these interminable and insufferable swims lay something called 'the shore' near which krill was to be found. To be honest, krill was to be found everywhere. But the shore had the ‘best’ krill. That’s what the elders always said. Krill...the only food he'd ever known... Shitty, tasteless, krill...

Where was he!?! Oh yes... He'd seen these little things on 'the shore'. That explained a lot. This large floating thing wasn't a creature. It was a bit of shore. It had broken off from the main bit and was floating with these little things on it. Little things who wanted to be friends. He resurfaced.

The little things made a noise. They may have been yelling at him, and yet it sounded friendly - like they were glad he had come back. He had no words to describe what was happening. 'Cheering', said his subconscious. He agreed.

Someone threw something at him. He felt hurt. He had thought he was being liked. But then he smelled the thing that was thrown and was now floating close by. It smelled delicious. He gulped it down. It WAS delicious! 'Ham' suggested his inner voice. What a nice word - ham. He opened his mouth to ask for more. He was given more! Oh joy! These little things were Godsends! He'd found paradise!

He swam around the ship for a while and the people on board laughed and cheered at him. They fed him enormous (to them) bits of meat. They brought their little kids to look at him. Then they got bored and went back to the dance.

Bob didn't mind. The little things had disappeared but the divine music had started up again. He smiled to himself and fell asleep.

Chapterlet 3: Paradise misplaced

Bob woke up with a start. It was a new day, and for once, filled with meaning and excitement. He positively leapt out of the water with the enthusiasm that he hadn’t felt in years. And then he noticed that the ship had gone.

A cold (and massive) hand gripped his heart. Had it all been a dream!?! No, it couldn’t be! It couldn’t! He’d seen the ship, he’d heard the music. He had... no wait he could still taste the ham. The ship had to be there somewhere, hidden behind... something.

Clicks came from below. Frolicking a few fathoms below the surface with the joy of the never bored, Andy was calling to him.

Andy: Hey Bob! Whatcha doon!?!

Bob (swimming down): Andy!

Andy: Hi!

Bob: Shut up Andy! And listen... did you see a big thing yesterday!?!

Andy: Ur...ummm... I saw us... we’re pretty big.

Bob: No, really! It was here, and it was huge and it was there all day yesterday and now it’s gone!

Andy was worried. He liked Bob. And now Bob was talking funny. There was nothing in the ocean that big. Maybe Bob was... ah yes...

Andy swam to the surface, had a look and came back to Bob.

Andy (happy to be of service): Bob, it’s still there.

Bob (hope and delight marching across his face like an army): Really !?!

He shot up, broke the surface and looked all around. Andy joined him.

Bob: Andy... where is it !?!

Andy (rolling over onto his back to point a flipper upwards): There.

Bob: Huh!?!

Andy: The sky! It’s still there! You’ve been worried for nothing!

It was the only time Bob had hit another whale. He was sorry immediately, but the deed had been done. Andy had swum away in tears and refused to be consoled. The rest of the pod had always been worried about Bob and had kept their distance. They did so even more now. Over weeks, he swam further apart from them, until they were no longer in sight. Only whalesong, plaintive and piercing, occasionally carried the knowledge of their presence somewhere in the ocean to him.

Boring though they were, he missed them. Part of him wanted to return, to accept the monotony of that life as an unchangeable fact. Resign himself to fate, as it were. But the music, oh, the music... it called to him... he could never rest until he’d heard it again. It pulled him with a strength that homesickness and nostalgia couldn’t begin to match.

And so, there was only one thing to do. Find the little things. Learn their ways. Try and... erm... fit in or something. That meant finding ‘the shore’.

And then going onto it.

Chapterlet 4: The main bit of paradise

Hatherley Beach is a holidaymaker’s delight. The sand is fine, the sunshine is plentiful, and importantly, regular. There are sandcastles to make and winkles to pick. There are games of beach volleyball to play. And there are naked people to watch. For Hatherley is a nudist beach. So, admittedly, not quite every holidaymaker’s ideal destination.

Most nudist beaches attract the kind of stripper whose genitalia are well covered by either hair or body fat. But at Hatherley a lot of the nudes are actually worth ogling. Well worth ogling. In fact, truth be told, there usually isn’t much sandcastle building or winkle picking going on. It’s all about the beach volleyball at Hatherley. That and the ogling.

Tuesday afternoon had brought out a fine crop of oglable bodies to the shore. They had come out to impress with their tanned skins and their toned abs and their big, umm, their big, erm, just so. The oglers were in for a real treat. Only they weren’t paying any attention. They were all looking at Bob.

Exhausted and famished, Bob had found ‘the shore’. Or rather, it had found him. He had seen land and, swimming towards it, had ventured into the shallows. And the carpet that is the tide had been swept out from underneath him. And here he was, on paradise. And all around him were the little ones he’d been longing meet again.

Gosh, it was hot. His skin was burning. But it was alright. He was where he had longed to be. Now for the goodies! All through the solitary swim leading up to today, his mind had been raising visions he’d never seen before – telling him about filet mignons and chardonnay and Bach and soft jazz. It had waxed lyrical about moonlight sonatas and... and Monet... and safaris and bratwurst and apple pie. He didn’t know what any of those meant. He didn’t know how his subconscious knew them. But he knew, somehow, that these things were, and that they were wonderful, and that he had to experience them before he died.

And now he was here. Let the fun begin little people! Let’s see how one can live!

Chapterlet 5: The way to hell

But the little ones did not approach. No music played. No food appeared. Instead, some little ones who were all jet black made the others back away. A long way away.

“Oh don’t be scared”, thought Bob, “I’m not mean. I never hit any... well I hit Andy once, but I was sorry about that. Please stay.”

But the little ones stayed away.

“Could I please have some ... filet mignon!?! I don’t know what that is, but I know it must be nice. Please!?!”

But all they gave him was a squeeze of a wet sponge on his back.

“Mozart!”, he pleaded, “Beethoven! Play me something! Please don’t let me have done all this for nothing!”

But all they did was talk to him in their meaningless jibber jabber and pat him.

“Please, give me something!”

But all they did was sit and look sad.

For two hours he pleaded and begged. He asked for Jazz and they made him listen to their sighs. He asked for milkshakes and they covered him with a canopy. He begged for a Fry and Laurie sketch (he really had no idea what that could even be, but his mind had suggested it and it had intrigued him no end) and they tried to push him. And when they pushed (to absolutely no avail), he realised what they were trying to do.

“Don’t send me back!” he cried, “Oh please! Let me stay! I gave up everything to get here! You made me come here and now you want to push me away! You bastards! You utter bastards!”

But they didn’t listen. They just squeezed their sponges and fanned their fans and patted him and occasionally tried to push him.

Then, the pain started. Pulses of pain, almost unbearable, shot through his entire body as if his insides had been hammered. And then, just as he knew all the good things of the little ones without knowing how, he knew that he was dying. He made one final attmpt.

“Ham!” he shouted, remembering the only goodie he knew existed. “At least some ham! Please! I’m dying... oh I’m dying... please!”

But they didn’t even give him ham.

The pain increased, and now he welcomed it. It took his mind off his utter, utter despair. The throbbing, crippling agony of his dying insides was better than the pain of his broken heart.

At last, the tide came in and lifted him up. The jet black little ones started pushing him again. He did not resist.

The people on the beach saw the whale float out. They had saved him! Their hearts filled with pride and happiness! Oh how good it felt to help a helpless fellow being! Well done! Well done everyone! Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray!

Bob was well out by the time they were done with the cheer. And so, as his limp body drifted into the deep, no one saw his tears.

Chapterlet 6: Epilogue

Far out in the ocean, unknown to humanity, is an island. A tiny, windswept bit of rock. A place so desolate that even jetsam and flotsam don’t come its way. But, every once in a while, a current that really shouldn’t exist brings something to its shores. Something biggish. Something Bob-ish.

Soft music plays over the land here. Close to the shore sparkle fountains of wine, and from slender, easily shaken trees fall filet mignons and apple pies and all kinds of goodies. And, if you venture a little inland, just a little, you will see, on a little TV set, a Fry and Laurie sketch being played out in whalesong.