My Son’s Journey To Manhood–Part Two

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“Mom, come fast, Frankie broke his arm and it’s really bad.”

These are words no parent wants to hear—especially when visiting dear old college friends on a balmy summer night for the first time in almost a decade.  One thought kept going through my mind as I sprinted across the freshly mowed lawn at dusk.  “No matter how bad it is, don’t let your face give it away when he sees you.  You have to stay calm so he doesn’t pass out.”

As I rounded the corner, I saw my son sprawled on the ground and my husband’s best man huddled over him.  His expression as he cupped my sons arm between both of his hands told me it was not just broken.  It was badly broken. 

I took some comfort in the fact that my friend is a veterinarian.  He knew exactly what to do which gave me time to calm my thoughts and approach my son.  I needed to assess his mental state.  You see, he is 10 going on 11.  He is more sensitive than brave–at least that is what my prior experiences with “big injuries” had indicated.  Would he be crying?  Would he panic and pass out, or would he be taking it like a man?  I didn’t know.

The young man on the ground below me was remarkably calm.  I asked him if he needed some orange juice and water, and the kids who had gathered round gladly volunteered to get ice, towels, orange juice, Motrin, and anything else we could think of that would bring him temporary comfort.

I remained focused on his eyes until I mustered up courage to look at his arm. It was compressed by about 4 inches, swollen to twice its normal size and shaped like a “Z”.  The twisted and mangle flesh looked more like a sausage than an arm.  It didn’t look good. The “impromptu neighborhood medical team” mobilized quickly.  We carefully loaded my son into our friend’s car, and the two men raced my boy to the ER.  After wrapping up a few details at the scene of the incident, I followed behind them in another car.    Time seemed to stand still while I hit every red light on the 4 mile journey. 

I ran through the waiting room whizzing right by my friend who was waiting for a progress report.  We exchanged a few words and he said he thought it looked like it might require surgery to reset the bones.  That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.  He said he would call his local doctor buddies to assess who the best surgeon in the area was.  He left on a mission, and I entered the exam room 50 to find my son hooked up to all kinds of ominous looking devices. 

A team of doctors, orthopedists and nurses were assessing the damage.   Normal protocol in these situations is to sedate the child immediately and reset the bones.  There was one minor problem.  My son had just eaten a giant steak dinner which meant sedation was not an option.  The choices were to tough it out with a local anesthetic and reset the bone now, or wait for 4 hours until they could sedate him. 

We knew waiting would result in swelling and potential nerve damage to his fingers–not great news for a budding pianist.  But getting the local was a decision that my son would have to make since it meant that he would be awake during the resetting and would undoubtedly experience intense pain.

It was a turning point…a defining moment in my young “man-child’s life”.  He pondered the decision for a quite a while and then made a choice indicative of the young man he is becoming—to suffer through the short term pain to get it all over with. 

I was floored!  And then I had to leave the room. 

Even though I birthed the nine pound munchkin, the thought of his suffering was more than this mama could tolerate.  The doctors warned my husband and I about the prospect of watching what was about to happen.  They recounted stories of other (initially) brave parents who ended up on the floor when the procedure began.  I knew my own limitations.  I didn’t want the squeamish look on my face to make my son nervous.  My husband insisted on staying.  He had suffered with the same injury when he was 12, and knew what my son was facing.   It’s times like this when I really appreciate the character and strength of the man I married.

The next 30 minutes seemed like an eternity.  Every minute or two, I heard wails of pain from my son and words of encouragement from the doctors, nurses and my husband.  And then, finally, they called me into the room.  My son was calm, and a little loopy, but wanted to relive the experience in vivid detail.

Here’s the recap of what he endured.   First, they gave him two shots of local anesthetic on each side of the break.  Just making it through the two shots was an amazing accomplishment for him.  After a few minutes, they injected two more shots into the tip of each broken bone.  The thought of this was intolerable.  Then, they put two of his fingers into a medieval looking contraption and suspended his arm.  They draped a weight over his bicep to stretch the bones and then the torture began.  The doctor popped the big bone into place—literally on the first try.  The smaller bone proved to be more challenging.  My son was subjected to 30 minutes of twisting, jerking, crunching, and jimmying.  After each adjustment, they surveyed the result with a portable c-arm x-ray machine. 

With one final crunching sound, my son let out a sigh of relief.  It finally “felt right” and his poor, over exerted nerves could take a rest.  The casting only took a few minutes and gave us a chance to chat with the doctor about the frequency of kids and broken bones during the summer months—two to seven per day.  Astounding!  There was another boy down the hall with the same injury, and the doctor said my son had been much braver.  The smile on his face was just precious. 

The little boy I raised, who cried at scraped knees and wanted his boo-boos kissed had suddenly become a man.  He didn’t cry once during the whole incident.  He made a decision I am not sure I could have made.  He didn’t pass out when he saw his once perfect arm contorted into a “z” formation.  And he stuck it out through extreme torture and pain with only a local anesthetic.

I had to know how he did it.   He said he just closed his eyes and envisioned himself on his favorite skateboard ramps, jumping and doing perfect “Ollie’s.”  (I just learned what those are). 

I was really proud of him.  Each step on his journey to manhood takes him further away from me—his mama.   I become more and more irrelevant in his life, but I am proud to see the dramatic change this summer has brought and take each step with him on his journey to manhood. 

P.S.  Hearing him recount the incident to his best friend was just precious… “Dude, it was so stupid.  And I cried like a girl”.  I was there.  He didn’t cry once!  In his pain and delirium, he must have imagined he was crying.

P.P.S.  If you liked this post, you might also like this:  A Love Letter to My Son As He Becomes a Man.