Not So Fun Firsts
Chandelle Hunt
Another day making grocery lists and running errands. Daddy is at home with you, which makes the trip smoother and much quieter. I have forgotten my phone again but see no need to turn around to get it; I can be without it for an hour. I buy the food and load the car glad to be on my way. I am so tired. Driving through the lot towards the exit I see a silver Civic pull in and head straight for me. It takes a minute for me to register that it is Dad and then to wonder what he is doing here. He looks upset, and I start to feel frustrated wondering why he has followed me here. Did I take something he needs? As he pulls up beside me and rolls his window down to match my own I hear the second half of his sentence. “…the medical cards?!?!” Wonder turns to fear as I realize he is searching for our insurance information. Aspen has broken her arm. There is no doubt.
You are crying in the back seat with soft whimpers and large tears. He takes you to the insta care facility near our home and is turned away because of a long wait with the instruction to take you to the emergency room at Pioneer Children’s Hospital. I am with you now and am sitting next to you in the back seat trying to support your arm as we drive along. Every bump, every turn causes you to flinch and call out. You grow pale and listless, and I feel so helpless to do anything for you. Daddy lifts you carefully from the car and for the first time I hear you truly scream from the pain of being moved.
It is your turn to be seen and the nurse removes the homemade sling to reveal your arm to me for the first time: the arm is bent and folded in an unnatural way that sends a wave of nausea through me. They send you to the radiology department with a kind student who explains what they will need to do while we walk. The first image is taken easily but now the nice student looks confused. She’s trying to figure out how to rotate your arm enough to take the second and more important image. As she begins to rotate your arm your eyes fill with panic and betrayal before you cry out in pain. It makes me cringe and feel panicky so I try and calm myself and then you. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to calm you though; you have always been very strong. After a few more tries I am feeling very anxious and frustrated that they keep hurting you when it is not working so I ask if you can have some pain medication before we try again.
We go to your room where the nurse comes to give you the medication through an IV. I explain what is going to happen, and you promptly tell me you don’t want a shot. With the help of the nurse who charms you by telling you about her baby that “even shares your name” you finally agree to get the IV, partly because you were told that the IV will prevent other “shots.” After preparing your little arm you are told to look away if you are scared, but you keep your eyes fixed on the needle determined to know what is happening. The drugs settle in as you sit in the wheel chair resting your arm on Floppy for support.
Back in the radiology department, we have a new student. She is not as friendly. Going straight to work she takes the first picture and then again rotates your arm. You cry. The pain medication doesn’t seem to have helped much. “Stop, stop no more” you keep telling the student, but she barely even notices your objections insisting that “it just needs a little bit more.” I am wondering if the x-ray is worth this and wanting to tell her to leave. Finally, she gets the picture she wants, and you are released. I wish I could hold you but know that moving you will hurt. We hear Daddy talking about the pictures so you ask to see them, always curious and never wanting to be left out.
We have been at the hospital for hours now, waiting.
After what feels like an eternity, the Doctor comes in to explain what happens next. I smile to myself because he has a strong southern accent. “We are going to put her to sleep while we try and set the breaks. But this type of break can be hard to set so we might need to take her into surgery and put pins in her …” The nurse explains all the drugs that will be used and assures me that they will have people in there just to watch you breathe. I don’t feel reassured. They put you to sleep then evict Dad and me from the room. Apparently parents have passed out before. I am passing the hall trying to see the monitors and ignore the sight of the Doctor pulling and shoving your arm together with enough strain to flex his arms. Once again I feel helpless. At last I see them preparing the splint for your arm and breathe a sigh of relief that the bones have lined up.
You open your eyes, look at me, then roll over as if to go back to sleep. Able to smile now, we work on getting you to stay awake. Ready to leave and checking out your only concern is if you get to keep the yellow blanket. You do, so all is well.
A few days pass, and the pain is subsiding. You are learning to use your left hand, and you fight me about wearing the sling. Getting home late at night I send you to get your PJs while I finish getting your sisters’s bags ready for school the next day. You haven’t returned. As I enter your room to check on you, you jump with a start and throw your arms behind your back. Realization hits me that you should not be able to do that. Your brace is off.
Four phone calls and a babysitter latter we are on our way back to the hospital.
1 comment:
Welcome to the blog slacker club, it's good to have you. I think that pic of Aspen pretty much sums up the whole ordeal. poor little thing. I am glad that she is back to normal now. I just found out that Shay's friend broke his arm at the Arcadia's sports class last week, crazy.
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