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.