Broken Bones

I’ve never experienced a broken bone in my family. But that all changed last week when I got a call that my 11-year-old was in the back of an ambulance after falling off the waka along the loop.

After pulling myself together, I headed into Emergency not knowing what I’d find. It seemed to take forever getting through the barrage of questions at administration as all our contact details were updated before I was let through to see him.

And there he was, lying on the bed. Not the happy-go-lucky boy I’d kissed goodbye the day before, who’d been in and out of the pool with carefree ease and excitedly poking and prodding his presents under the tree. Instead, lay a child in agony, a different colour to what I’d ever seen him and with a totally different summer ahead to the one we had planned.

X-rays showed he’d broken his right arm in three places with a compound fracture, confirming that, indeed, he would spend the entire summer in a cast with it due to come off around the time school goes back.

He was subsequently moved to the children’s ward to await surgery. It was a long and agonising nine-hour wait for a child in pain when his limit of morphine wasn’t cutting it.

Finally, he was wheeled through to theatre that evening, where he underwent many more questions before I donned a cap and gown and went through the doors with him.

“Mum, should I order my dinner now?” he suddenly asked, taking me up on the offer that, after not eating a whole day (not that he felt like it), he could have whatever he liked when he emerged from theatre.

“A cheeseburger combo with an L&P,” he informed.

He was administered the anaesthetic and asleep before I had time to say goodnight.

I kissed his forehead then took a step back watching for him to take that first breath.

“Bye mum,” the anaesthetist smiled.

I took my leave and we waited two hours before we got word he was on his way back.

When he returned he was groggy and, of course, not interested in food. The following morning, he vomited his medication back up. Not only was he still in pain with two rods in his arm but he was severely nauseous as well.

You know they’re in a lot of pain when your child, who hasn’t cried once in his schooling career, spends the most part of 48-hours in tears, not to mention is disinterested in food or their phone. And it’s hard for a parent when there’s nothing you can do to take the pain away – you can’t even hug them for the intravenous in one arm or fear of bumping the painful swollen fingers protruding from the cast on the other.

The concern on his siblings’ faces when they came up to the hospital and saw the state of their brother was humbling. Despite having a rumble the day before, which went a bit far, leaving Master Nine and his ego a little bruised, it was obvious all was forgiven. Likewise, his sister was rendered silent as they took in the sight before them.

Even though it was an extremely busy time of year for accidents, the staff professionalism was admirable and, despite surely being used to children constantly groaning in pain, the nurses in the children’s ward had empathy in spades. The atmosphere in the ward was festive and I was impressed with the trolley of new books wheeled into the rooms for the children to choose from and take one home. Likewise, the generous Christmas gift my son received before he left.

After lunch, he was wheeled out of hospital and loaded into the car. On the way home we passed his friend and, while I beeped, he went to wave, then realised he couldn’t. The first of many realisations.

At home, my role as a nurse truly kicked in as I realised how little he could do with one arm. The first night home was harrowing with all the pain killers he was allowed and still sobbing in agony, there was nothing else I could do but climb into bed and try to comfort him with little effect. 

It took several days to get on top of the nausea and manage the pain. Concerned friends were showing up, expecting to find their cheerful buddy and soon realised he wasn’t in the mood to socialise so they sat, instead and kept him company.

And then on day three, when all the surgical meds had left his body, he snapped out of the gloom. Grinning from ear-to-ear and with his custom cheek, we had our boy back just in time for Christmas.

His summer will certainly be different to the one we had planned but, during a season when, every time I look at the news, there is yet another tragedy, I’m grateful that, with his bones healing, we still have our family intact.

Christmas Magic

This Christmas some of the magic has gone. Yes, we now have a houseful of non-believers. They’ve done pretty well reaching the age of nine and I’m sure that, had her friend not spilt the beans earlier this year upon finding out herself, then Missy would still believe.

Her brother, on the other hand, has been sceptical a while. In fact, I’m fairly certain he didn’t believe last year either but was smart enough to go along with it and still receive a sackful of pressies on the end of his bed Christmas morning.

Master 11 was told from the age of eight: “If you don’t ‘believe’, you won’t receive”, ie Keep your mouth shut and you will also wake to a sackful of presents. This worked.

There was no big announcement; One day, halfway up Mount Manaia, one of them said: ‘Mum, Santa’s not real – it’s you aye?’ and I just gave him a little smile which he could interpret any way he wanted.

However, his sister came home from school a little irate that her friend had spoilt it for her and I confirmed it by joining her with the unfairness of it all. (Parents, if you’re gonna tell your kids, please ask them to keep it to themselves!) And that was that.

It’s been odd this year, not having to put stocking-fillers aside, nor making the personalised Santa videos which would hold them enthralled waiting until the end to see whether they got the red light or the green for naughty or nice. (One year, Missy ended up in tears for her brother who had received a red light, it was taken that seriously.) There’ll be no more watching the Santa Report on the news, followed by shrieking their way to bed in excitement with his impending arrival.

We won’t be leaving a bucketful of water on the back deck for Rudolph and his buddies or a note to Santa stating: ‘Santa, you’re the best in the world. Ho ho ho.’ with some huckeroo pieces of chopped up fruit (phew!) I can’t even bribe them from December 1 that Santa’s elves are watching them ready to report their behaviour back to the North Pole.

I’m fairly confident your children won’t be reading this – mine certainly don’t, but perhaps, if they were thinking of doing some papier mache, confiscate it fast! I would hate to shatter their magical illusion. And meantime, soak up the magic that is Christmas with a houseful of believers.

Inner Voice

“I was wondering,” mused Master 11. “When your voice breaks, does the voice inside your head change too?”

“What voice in your head?” I stupidly asked.

“You know, the one that thinks all the time.”

Silly me but I’d never contemplated my children thinking with a voice in their head - it’s hard to believe that your children, who seem to be continuously making a racket and on the go, have an inner voice as well that they listen to.

Mine is constant. In fact, its flow of narration doesn’t shut down – hence why I’m an insomniac. For some reason, it decides to up the ante at 2am after only three hours sleep. I will find myself thinking about the randomist things and then wonder how I got there. It’s only after backtracking and rewinding the string of linked thoughts that I come back to what started it all.

Sometimes I’ll have an epiphany, only to, a, completely forget or, b, no longer care, due to my sleep-deprived fuzzy head the following morning. This is when I berate myself for worrying about such trivial matters and thereby impacting on the quality of the day.

But us insomniacs just love talking about how little sleep we get and no one really wants to hear. It’s probably almost as irritating to them as it is for the partner of an insomniac to wake and declare how tired they are after you’ve laid next to them all night listening to them snore.

So back to this inner voice; I was curious.

“What does the voice inside your head talk about?” I asked him.

“Oh, just random stuff.”

“Well that was a good question but I really don’t know the answer to it. I imagine, as we grow older and our voice matures, the one inside our head does too. Although we never seem to sound how we think we do,” I shuddered, thinking of all the baby video recordings I’d done in previous years where I’d wished I’d kept quiet.

“Anyhow, I guess only a male whose gone through puberty can answer that so maybe you’ll have to ask somebody else.”

A few weeks later I remembered our conversation and posed the question to a (way past) post-pubescent male.

After a good chuckle, he replied: “Yes, the voice would change in your head because the voice is your voice, hahaha.”

I felt a little dumb but decided to take up my son’s quest:

“But does it change gradually or overnight?”

“Your voice changes gradually, breaking up and down and squeaking so that means your inner voice would break too…”

I sat there for a moment trying to imagine this but, to be honest, it hurt my own head to try and even wrap it around this notion. There was no point turning to Google; my kids have never thought to ask ‘normal’ questions like why the sky is blue. I always got the likes of: “Mum, do teachers ever go to the toilet?” or “Why are those flies fighting?”.

“Oh, because they just are,” was my response to the last one, the kids then being far too young for the birds and the bees talk.

So, defeated, I got back to my son: “You know your question about when your voice breaks? Well you’ll just have to wait and see the answer to that.

“But please enlighten me when you find out – I’d love to know!”