“Call the emergency clinic and see if they’re open. There’s something wrong with Graham.”
That’s not the kind of call I like getting from Rob. He did add that Graham was relatively okay… but not before I had nearly collapsed into a heap on the floor.
So here’s the story:
Meanwhile, the kids were listening to the band and dancing like crazed mini acrobats. Suddenly, Rob heard a thump behind him. He turned around to see Graham on the ground. Violet looked horrified. Graham stood up, doing that no-sound-scream thing. Rob could see immediately there was something wrong with his arm. It was bent. He whisked the kids into the car, stopped for some ice to put on the arm and started the drive home.
That’s when I got the call.
I got ready and went outside to pace in the driveway while I waited for them to pick me up.
Twenty minutes later I called. Rob had been pulled over about a half mile from our house. Yes, he was speeding. (Hello? Speeding to take his injured son to the doctor!) The police took FOREVER to assure themselves that Rob is not a kidnapper or child abuser.
By the time they finally arrived Graham was cheerful again. Still, he couldn’t move his right arm or fingers.
The waiting room at the clinic was packed. But Graham and Violet happily played with the toys there, even though Graham’s arm dangled pitifully at his side. He couldn’t even pick up Nunu.
Violet gave us her version of the incident. After all, she was the only one who saw it. Apparently she was giving Graham a horsey ride on the dance floor. Then she stood up. When she looked down, Graham was splayed on his stomach. (She demonstrated) Ooookay.
We could tell Violet was stressed because she could not stop putting her fingers in her mouth. She was worried (and maybe feeling guilty?) about her little brother. But we just couldn’t watch her ingesting clinic plague every time she had a nervous thought. Enduring heart-wrenching protests, Rob took her home to put her to bed.
More waiting, then Graham got called in. More waiting. Then X-rays, for which he was amazingly compliant. He marched through the clinic, declaring loudly, “I have a big owie on my arm! Mommy gave me a lollipop!” More waiting.
Yup. It’s broken. Both bones in the right forearm (ulna and radius, for those of you interested). He got a splint. The doctor explained that they don’t cast broken bones at the clinic and no one will do it the next day because it’s Labor Day. But no worries, she said, he doesn’t need a hard cast right away. (Wha? Ack! We’re letting a 2-year-old run around with an unfettered broken arm for a couple days?)
It was very late when we finally headed home. I had an anxiety-ridden time getting him into and out of the car seat, and into his PJs without hurting him. I heard him whimpering during the night, but he actually slept better than us. How would we survive the next couple days?
Stay tuned for the next installment in our broken-armed adventure….