I broke my leg when I was 12, in 1981. I broke it while crossing the icy street from school and broke it very well.
My dad made me walk on it, because he didn't believe it was broken. So, instead of a simple fracture, it was a compound fracture of the tibia and required surgery. My dad didn't take me to the hospital, because he still didn't believe it was broken. He took me home, and we had to cut my boot off and cut the jeans I was wearing, because the swelling was so bad. He then called around getting recommendations for orthopaedic doctors, and drove me to three different hospitals before finding one where a certain doctor had privileges. They admitted me, took radiographs, and prepped me for surgery. I woke up in the middle. I kicked a nurse and they put me back under. They inserted a 2" long pin.
I woke up in post-op with a toe to hip cast, and had already bled through it. Twice more.
I ended up with three casts, and had the cast for 6 months. It itched constantly, so I used a fly swatter handle to scratch my leg. I had 2" long black hairs, no muscle mass and ghostly pale skin with nasty layers of dead skin on it. Nothing like that to help the self confidence of a pre-teen girl!