Beware the Ides of March

Unfortunately, I’m a little prophetic. The first post on this blog was a poem by Sharon Olds about her son’s broken arm. She named her son Gabriel, and her poetry made me want to name my son Gabriel too. I didn’t, but my boy and Gabriel have that broken arm in common.

It’s an old story: birthday party, trampoline, boy who watched his sister effectively jump feet first off a trampoline and thought he could do it too, even though there were a zillion adults standing right there to help him.

I heard the cry and ran at warp speed. The fact that I didn’t throw up when I saw him was the first of many small miracles of the day – his arm looked like Harry Potter’s did when it went boneless after his Quidditch match.

Ice pack, leave the girls at the birthday party, and an eternal, ten minute ride to the hospital in the backseat of a truck driven by the birthday girl’s dad, all the while trying to talk to the boy to make sure he stayed awake – my expired first aid skills kept saying “he might go into shock.” Or perhaps I was in shock – can’t be sure.

We were ushered right into the pediatric ER and as we were sitting on a bench in the waiting room, a doctor sauntered in. I lifted up the ice pack to show him Buddy’s arm. He nodded, “Why don’t you come right in and skip triage?”

“Great idea,” I said.

Within seconds, my boy had morphine, which made us both feel better. He said, “Remember how bad my arm when we were at the party? It hurts less now.”

At one point, I asked Buddy if he needed anything – we all know I was willing to offer anything: end of genocide in Darfur or a million ice cream cones. He smiled, and sang “All I Need is Love.” You have to love a kid who quotes the Beatles in times of stress.

Once Mary showed up, I was able to relax a little - and Buddy was happier too. And she brought a DVD player, which was a stroke of genius.

It was clear that he would need some sort of assistance getting the arm straightened – of course, not an exaggerator at all, I was picturing open arm surgery and a million pins.

Turns out, I didn’t go to medical school. What he needed was a reduction – which is a lot more disgusting than its banal sounding name. It’s kind of like something that would happen on Alias, except it’s not Jennifer Garner yanking bones back in place, it’s your kid; and the sounds of bones snapping back in place are not special effects added in later, it’s your kid. But it was over in ten seconds, thankfully.

Watching your five year old come off of Vercet and another drug whose name I can’t remember is quite amusing. He sang the days of the week Jack Black style and was mesmerized by the sea animal art all over the walls.

When he finally came to, he was starving, of course. Our boy has a master metabolism and not being able to eat during the stay (he needed an empty stomach for the reduction) was probably the worst part of the whole day.

So he’s home and slinged – he’ll get a hard cast in a few days when the swelling goes down. And at the moment, he’s wearing a blue shirt.