Flesh and Bone

They say kids are resilient. Kids are flexible, adaptable. Kids bounce back. Kids are tougher than we are. They thrive in crazy circumstances. My daughter is a good example--in her four years she's been through crap that I'll never even know about. I've always marveled at her strength, and joked that you wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley. I've seen her lift her entire body weight (considerable, that) while being held upside-down. I've seen her sprint like the wind to get to a fruit leather miles ahead of another child. I've seen her soldier uncomplainingly through pneumonia, high fevers, hacking coughs and worse. I've seen her shimmy to the top of a giant inflatable slide ahead of kids three times her age. My girl, I always say, is way tougher than her marshmallow mama, and already I can tell that she will never stand in the outfield twirling her hair and let a ball roll out of her glove while whining "Owwww!" My girl is Mt. Vesuvius.

So it's humbling to learn, as I must, that she is fragile, too. Like any other tiny person finding her footing in the world, she will make mistakes, she will have regrets, there will be moments she (and I) wish she could take back. Readers, one of those moments is upon us.

Yesterday afternoon was a Friday at the park like any other. A bunch of preschool moms and I lounged in the shade while the kids raced through the wood chips, scrambled up slides, swung across bars, plunged into bushes teeming with bees. I barely even check on her any more--by now, she seems invincible to me. Sure, her knees are mottled with bruises, but that's her job. It was almost time to go when Jarrah decided to bring her friend Amelia a bottle of water, and spun lightning-quick (her only speed) to begin the dash across the grass. Something restrained her--dirt? a rock? her Croc?--and BAM! the full force of her take-off propelled her face-first into the dirt. She cried--she's a big crier--and I hauled her up for a hug, inspecting hands, elbows and legs for scrapes, finding none. I whispered that she was gonna be okay, but she said, clearly, "I want to go home." Well, that was unusual.

She cried out when I buckled her into the car seat. Her shoulder hurt, she said. I drove home, tense, telling her it was going to be okay. She cried out again when I took her out of the car, more desperately this time. Now I was worried. I took her inside, installed her on the couch with Curious George, an ice pack and some Motrin. She sucked her green popsicle stoically and didn't say much.

I called the triage nurse. Can't hurt to call, right? Take it out of my hands. I was a little surprised when she didn't hesitate. "Bring her in. Let's get an x-ray." It was the recurrent crying that convinced her. Kids don't cry more than once about their owies, generally.

I couldn't find David. Turns out he'd forgotten his cell phone--great day for that. And I was a little more than an hour away from teaching Nia. I tried to think straight by talking to myself. "Find the sub list. You can do it. Just call a couple people. No answer? Okay, call the front desk. Get someone to make a sign. It's okay. Focus." I kept calling out cheery updates to Jarrah--"We're going to the doctor, sweetie. To take a picture of your shoulder. No, no shots. I promise."

Back at the car, she clearly found my attempt to get her in the car seat excruciating. I stood there, heart pounding, alone with my furiously ticking head. Drive 30 minutes in rush hour traffic with no restraints? Or mangle my child's injured bones? I strapped one half of her, and she stared at me stoically, using her good arm to "hold" herself into the seat--she knows the rules. (Later, the doctor told me I did the right thing.)

Finally found David. He would meet us there. I was so nervous I threw a bunch of candy in Jarrah's lap and told her to have at it. I didn't want her thinking about pain. David thought I could drop Jarrah and still make my class. But there was no way I was leaving her.

She fell asleep in the car. For some reason this made me almost hyperventilate. I guess because I couldn't get my mind around the idea that she might just be tired. She looked so subdued. That is not the natural order of things. Melissa kept me clinging to the ledge all the way up, making small talk, staying upbeat. Thank goodness for her. Jarrah pitched dangerously forward in her stupor; I envisioned her tumbling to the floor, smashing her shoulder.

When we checked in, no sign of David. Jarrah, alert now, ran (!) to the toys and announced "I'm feeling much better!" It's an indication of my worry level that I genuinely meant it when I said "Well, that's great!" instead of sarcasm about a day turned upside down. She asked to go to the potty. We were in there so long that they called our name. Then I tried to help Jarrah up and she cried and cried. Maybe not better? When we came out David was there--he had gone to the wrong office. Again with the no cell phone.

The doctor didn't have much bedside manner. She asked a lot of questions (how is she going to answer questions accurately?) and said she didn't want to move her too much. Off we went to x-ray. And then we were there forever, listening to Mary Poppins and babies crying until I thought I would scream.

In the imaging room, Jarrah got to pick one parent, and it was me. "Sorry, Dad." the tech said cheerfully. "Mom always wins in these situations." What a difference three years makes! Jarrah was brave and cooperative, and they took three views. At one point, the two techs were around the corner for an age, whispering. I should have seen that for the sign it was. That and the way one pressed the films into my hand 30 minutes later with a significant "Good luck."

It was getting dark now; no doubt the whole building wanted to go home, almost 6:00 on a Friday. But we were on our way back to the doctor with the x-rays, and after some more waiting, during which we decided it was all going to be nothing, she sailed into the room with the opening salvo, "Well, she broke her clavicle!"

"What?" I was in shock. I know it sounds crazy to be in shock about something we'd been pursuing all day, but there you have it. And then this doctor had nothing to say about it. "There's nothing you have to do for it. You can have a sling if you want. Yes, they make an immobilizing splint but we don't have any. Yes, you could see an orthopedist, but not until Monday. Or you could go to the emergency room now if you want. Sure, Motrin is fine if you want." Everything was so vague and blase it's like we were not all staring at a giant picture of a bone snapped in two. A bone in my small child's shoulder, causing her a lot of pain. I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I sobbed and sobbed. I guess I was just letting out the tension of the day, the smiling and coaxing and thinking two steps ahead for hours and hours.

Outside, I finally connected with Mary, and broke down, asked if we could come over for dinner. (They live around the corner.) They welcomed us with open arms. I asked for Chinese food--got that, too. Jarrah and Joy were happy to see each other, and within two minutes the sling was off, never to be seen again. We pushed past the sadness of Jarrah trying to squirm into a princess costume and screaming when she raised her arms. I said I would go to Target and get her some button-down shirts and Mary offered to come with me. Target is such a dependable memory-wipe that I actually had fun, and got to peer through the window of parenting boys, since the only button-down shirts were in the boys section (and why are they all plaid? is that a rule?)

I arrived home at 10:30, and Jarrah was fast asleep, dreaming away the day. She slept 12 hours and woke in an uncannily agreeable mood, full of smiles. Don't think she isn't learning to milk that bone already, though. We are required to soap, rinse and dry her hands, bring her copious amounts of frozen treats, and David has to carry her from room to room, since apparently she has broken legs, too. She said she is looking forward to telling her class that she broke a bone, but she did have one very hard question for us, suspicious in its extreme adorableness:

"But how will I give hugs?"

"Oh, sweetheart," I said. "Very carefully. Very carefully."

Her attitude has been champion except for the few moments when she's tried to act like her old self and it's hurt like all get out. Then her lip quivers and her eyes well up and she says "I'm worried. I'm worried that I can't do things that I want."

That is a big one. I totally relate.