Nothing Prepares You

Nothing prepares you for the call telling you that your baby is lying on the floor crying because she broke her arm. None of my prior experiences helped me get into my car with my boyfriend comforting me and helping me be strong. I've never had to drive with tears in my eyes and frenzied worries racing through my brain.
Self-blame was the immediate response. "I knew I should have talked her out of going to that party," knowing full well that my worries had not actually involved a broken arm. "I shouldn't have driven all the way home. I should have stayed at the skating rink," again knowing full well that she wanted me to go, knowing I would have been bored out of my mind.
Driving to the hospital, I made the necessary phone calls, alerting my mom, my anchor, my rock, to the situation. Calling back, I cried as my dad told me she had already left and therefore wouldn't know that my daughter was going to a different hospital. I cried harder as he reassured me over my nightmarish what-ifs and "How am I going to pay for this?" His calm voice echoed the comforting voice of my boyfriend and I became strong.
Walking into the emergency room before the ambulance arrived, I hastened to dry my tears and remember my baby's social security number. (Note: She is twelve, but she'll be my baby until we're both in our hundreds.)
Waiting in Trauma 2, I hid my horror as they unwrapped the temporary splint and my baby's misshaped, elongated, nightmare of a broken arm became visible. I stifled my sobs and hid my tears as she apologized for falling and told me, "Mama, it hurts." My boyfriend turned away as she cried, because he didn't want her to see the horror on his face.
I numbly nodded, initialed, signed, dated, listened blankly and let my daughter squeeze my hand to pieces as they placed the x-ray plate under her arm. I left the room and winced as they took the x-rays, hearing her whimper every time they moved her arm.
The ER doc and surgeon conferred and talked about the commonplace qualities of the situation, not callously, but matter of fact, as they should. Her nurse laughed as he told her that she at least had a good reason for falling. She and I both were horrified as he showed her his scarred arm and explained, " I got this in 7th grade when I tried to jump over the tennis net. At least you were doing something worthwhile."
She clutched my hand as they prepared her for surgery, to push her ulna back through her torn skin and realign everything in her precious right arm. I reassured her that everything would be okay and she whispered to me, "Mama, I'm scared." I kissed her and sent her away, worried about everything that could go wrong and trying hard to cling to what could go right.
Nothing prepared me for the waiting, wondering how long it would take, hoping I could be there when she woke up, in case she was still scared. I tried to watch tv, tried to get comfortable, tried to convince myself that she would be fine. I sent Taylor home, because he had work in 8 hours. I convinced my mom that she needed her sleep... and I waited.