Broken

It was a beautiful October Sunday. Warm, sunny and fleeting. I knew there wouldn't be many days left like this before we had to endure blistering cold, drifts of snow and house arrest. So even though I had worked the night before, I packed up my kids and took them to the park. I wanted to soak up some sun and let them run around a little.

And then came what turned into the single worst day of my life.

I was watching Patrick climb and swing, ensuring he wasn't doing anything that would endanger him. Grace was off running around with some of the neighborhood kids. I never worried about Grace doing anything dangerous. She was my cautious one, very self aware. She knew what she was capable of.

And yet, none of that mattered. It was a stupid fall off of a simple climbing structure. A fall in which she landed on one outstreched arm.

"Mama, I hurt my arm."

There were no tears. There was no screaming. She very calmly and matter of factly held her arm against her body and told me she hurt it. Just by the way she was holding it, I knew she had done something to it. But by her reaction, I did not anticipate the break she had suffered. She was wearing long sleeves.

Ok, let's fast forward...

I somehow got her and Patrick in my car and drove home. Still no tears from Grace. I am calmly talking to Pat. Explaining I think she may need an xray by the way she won't move her arm and is splinting it against her body. Grace is just sitting on the couch, wimpering.

"Mama, I think I want to put ice on it."

"Ok, baby. We can do that."

HOLYMOTHEROFGOD!!!!

This is the first time I have pulled her sleeve up. She is broken. I broke her. My knees go weak, my head feels fuzzy. What do I do next? Do you call an ambulance for this? Why in the world is she not FREAKING OUT???

I have never found it so difficult to look at something. Purple, swollen and very (very, very, very) obviously broken. Not because it was nasty, and indeed it was. But because it was my baby. And it was her arm, and it was broken in half.

I throw Grace in the car, we rush to the hopsital. She still doesnt cry. In fact, she is pale as a ghost, half asleep in the backseat. Ohhhhh, so this is what shock looks like. Not that I ever wanted to know first hand.

We arrive at Children's Hospital, and I am trying to remain calm. Based on earlier posts, you guys know just how calm and held together I am when it comes to my kids when they are sick or hurt. Not my strongest quality. But I am determined to hold it together and be a calm, rational human being and not have a psych emergency called in the middle of the emergency room.

"What seems to be the problem today, ma'am?"

"This is my daughter, she is four. She broke her arm."

"Ok, so let's fill out some paperwork."

"No, like she REALLY broke her arm."

"Ok, ma'am, well, this will just  take a minute."

"No, REALLY, you need to look under her sleeve."

I can feel my calm, rational self being beaten to death by the hysterical mother who is going to snap if someone doesn't fix this baby's broken arm NOW!

Maybe the nurse sensed this, saw my crazy eyes coming into focus. She heeds my warning and looks under her sleeve.

"Oh. Ok then. Come right on back here."

I have never been moved so quickly through an emergency room. Grace looks up at me, her eyes fill.

"Mama, I wish this never happened. I wish I never climbed on that thing."

Oh yeah, calm, rational mama just got knocked out in the last round. Here comes the hysterics.

I felt like I was having an outer body experience. I watched nurses and doctors poke, prod, and xray Grace. And then in walks the surgeon.

Fuuuuuuuck.

I know what he is going to tell us before he even says it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bunker, this is a bad break. We are going to have to operate to restore blood flow to her hand."

And there she went. My baby, in a bed that made her look so tiny. Being fawned over my nurses who were giving her toys and tying balloons to her bed. Wheeled into a cold, sterile room where they would put her to sleep and breathe for her while they tried to put my broken baby girl back together. And I wouldn't be there with her.

It was too much. I cried until my chest hurt. I replayed the entire day through my head over and over. I should have been watching her closer. I should have never even gone to the park. I should have noticed how bad the break was earlier. I should have called an ambulance. It was all my fault.

What seemed like eternity went by (which was actually two hours). The OR nurse comes to get us.

"You can see her now. She did great."

And there she was. I felt my heart stop for a second. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to scoop her up and just get out of there. Run. Run away. Just leave, and go home to our safe home. This was all just a dream.

My beautiful, sweet sleeping girl. She was hooked up to monitors. She had a full length purple cast on her left arm. Her lovey blankey MooMoo was snuggled up to her chest. I lean in and kiss her face, touch her curly hair. She's OK. She'll be OK.

We spend a night in the hospital recovering and another three weeks in the cast. It was the longest three weeks of my life. Lots of couch snuggling, pain medicine, ice cream for dinner and sponge baths. She was a trooper throguhout the entire thing.

The cast is off, her arm is getting stronger. Kids break, they heal. This is just a bump in her road. A little blip on the radar of her life.

It rocked my world. Imprinted on me forever. I will never be the same. I will carry that memory around with me and feel lucky every day that it ended up being treatable, but I will remember that things can change in an instant.