He never cried. Six years old with a broken arm and he
never cried, not even when he saw us. “I’m pretty sure your son’s arm is
fractured, Mrs. McKay,” the school nurse informed me on the phone. Fortunately,
my then husband, Doug, was home for lunch and we rushed to the school. There
we found our son Brad hunched slightly forward in a chair, wearing a crisp
white sling that hid his entire right arm. He was so small in that big chair,
in that big sling, but he wasn’t scared. A little pale, yes, but afraid, no.
Doug and I were afraid. We were mostly afraid that Brad
was in a lot of pain. But he didn’t seem to be. In fact, he was pretty
talkative and eager to explain all about his accident. As soon as he saw us, he
took a deep breath and proceeded to describe what had happened:
“See,
it was recess, and we were runnin’ on the tennis court, playing tag, and this
boy, I don’t know his name, this boy he tagged me, but he pushed kinda, and I
fell, and I did like a somersault, and my arm was over my head, and I rolled
over it, and I just knew it was broke, so I walked right up to Mrs. Galofaro
and told her, ‘Mrs. Galofaro, I think I broke my arm,’ and then she sent me
here to the nurse, and now you’re here, and do ya think I’m gonna have to get a
cast now?”
“I think you probably will, honey,” I told him. “Let’s go to the hospital and find
out.”
When the doctor
removed the sling I thought I would throw up. No, not exactly. I felt like I
had just plummeted over the hill on the Log Flume ride at Seabreeze and my
stomach had dropped into my socks. I wasn’t afraid Doug would throw up as much
as I was afraid that he would go back to the school and slap the nurse. “She
was pretty sure his arm was
fractured?!” Doug said. “Pretty sure?!”
He didn’t want to state the obvious: that instead of being anywhere close to
ruler-straight like a normal arm, Brad’s forearm was shaped like a “V.” It
looked like a branch that had been cracked over someone’s knee. It was a
miracle the bones weren’t poking out: the long blue sleeve of the pocket tee
shirt that he wore that day appeared to be the only thing holding his arm
together.
Brad had already seen his deformed arm, so he wasn’t
really shocked, and his sibling, Tuesday, had been smart enough to turn their head.
Brad asked the doctor if he could have a green cast like his friend Jackson’s
and informed his sibling, Tuesday, that they could be the first to sign it. The doctor explained
that Brad would have to wait and ask the bone doctor about his cast, and that only
one of us would be allowed to stay with Brad. Deciding who would stay was
simple. It didn’t even require any discussion. My ex-husband has a difficult
time staying calm in a crisis: his worry consumes him. I, however, usually stay
calm in these kinds of situations, so Doug and Tuesday waited out in the
hospital lobby while I stayed with Brad.
Naturally there
were X-rays and consultations, and luckily, Brad did not end up needing
surgery, so I was allowed to stay in the room with him while they unbent his
arm. While we were waiting for the doctors, Brad finally started to complain
that his arm hurt, that it felt like there was a lot of pressure on it. I told
him it was probably because he’d had to move it around during the x-rays, and I
carefully pulled him up on my lap. I didn’t want him to hurt. I wanted to take
the pain from him. I combed his thick, bark-brown hair with my fingers, just
like I used to when he was a baby. It still had the same effect: his bushy
little caterpillar eyebrows unfurrowed, his eyelids grew heavy, and his eyes
became glossy and rolled around in their sockets like shiny marbles. Within a
minute he was asleep.
He seemed so small. At first. As he slept he grew heavier
and warmer. He wasn’t a part of me anymore like when he was a baby. He was his
own little person, his own growing person, learning to take his own risks and
follow his own desires. I couldn’t carry him around inside me to nurture and
protect him anymore. Eventually he would be grown enough to carry me around,
yet I still felt as though he would somehow always be a part of me. Yes, the
umbilical cord had been cut long ago, but some tie would never be severed.
By the time the nurse and the two doctors arrived, Brad
and I were both pink and sticky with sweat. Brad woke up as we were introduced
to Dr. Taylor, who was going to set Brad’s arm, and Patty, the nurse who would
be assisting Dr. Taylor. The other doctor, Dr. West, was going to administer
the anesthetic and then watch Brad during the entire procedure. That was his
job: to literally watch my son and make sure nothing bad happened, like some
kind of guardian angel.
I felt reassured at first, but then I was worried about
why Brad had to be watched so closely. “What could go wrong?” I thought. “It’s
just a broken arm.” A smart teacher once told me that worry cannot protect, but
I couldn’t help but worry. Here he was, my son, so small in that bed, all by
himself. I sat in a chair next to the bed, out of the way, and put my hand on
his shin so he would know I was still there. As he injected the medication, the
doctor explained that it was not an analgesic: “He’ll still be able to feel
pain, but he won’t be able to remember it. Not two seconds later, two days
later, or two years later. He’ll forget it all. He’ll just feel drowsy and
drift in and out of consciousness.”
I watched my son. Dr. West watched my son. We both
watched Brad’s eyelids grow heavy. We watched the marbles roll around. But
something seemed different this time. I started to rub Brad’s shin to remind
him that I was there. He gave me a quick, diluted smile and his eyes
closed. I kept rubbing his leg, calmly,
rhythmically. I was trying to calm myself. Brad didn’t look like he had earlier
when he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t look like the medicine was making him
sleepy; he looked like it was putting him to sleep, like when animals are put
to sleep.
I watched the doctor watch my
son. We were obviously looking for different things, seeing different things. I
saw that my son’s consciousness was being taken away. To the doctor, this
appeared normal. To me, it was terrifying. I knew they were helping him, that
his unconsciousness was protecting him from pain, but I felt like I was
watching him die and that I was helpless to do anything but sit and rub his
leg.
That’s when I cried. (And I am crying now.) “I love you,
“I smiled and whispered to Brad as he drifted away. “I love you,” I repeated, rubbing his leg, as
if that would protect him. “I love you,” again, hoping he would take that with
him, hoping he would always remember. “I love you.”
Oddly, it didn’t
bother me to watch Dr. Taylor set Brad’s arm. I was able to endure the crunch
and crack and even the faint “ow” that Brad murmured, letting me know he was
still in there. “I love you,” I responded, but he faded again; his
consciousness faded. And I cried again, feeling ashamed because I finally had
to turn my head. I didn’t want Brad to suffer, but I couldn’t endure his
drifting away. What if he didn’t come back?
In the recovery room, I continued to
rub Brad’s leg and tell him I loved him. I imagined how warm the fresh plaster
cast must have felt on his arm, and I wanted that warmth to radiate throughout
his body. I wanted so much to protect him; I will always want to protect him.
Brad drifted
in and out of consciousness for about forty minutes. Once, shortly before he
was fully awake, he opened his eyes and flashed me another diluted smile.
“I
love you, too, Mom,” he whispered before closing his eyes again.
And I
always carry it with me.
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