We arrived around 4 and had pizzas for dinner. After, the family all headed downstairs to play air hockey, watch the grandkids wrestle and play. Soon the kids were ready to watch a movie (or a moomie, as Ada calls them, though she's never sat through more than 10 minutes of one so I'm not sure what her fascination is...) I headed upstairs to make popcorn and before the microwave dinged Mike was carrying a crying Ada up the stairs.
She had climbed up to the second rung on the bunk bed ladder (only about the height of a kitchen chair), slipped, and taken the full impact of her fall onto the tile floor with her right arm.
|(L) waiting at the Instacare, in the middle of saying, "It huuuurts." (R) Didn't hurt bad enough to keep her from using that arm to color with. She the bend in it? Her other arm looks totally straight by comparison.|
On the drive there was sang a few primary songs which calmed her down almost immediately. We drove 10 minutes the wrong way on Highway 40, too flustered to follow a map, before turning around and getting to the hospital.
|Too happy to have a broken arm, right? Or just loopy because it was after 10 pm at this point.|
|Still coloring with her broken arm (after pushing the ER doc away with it...my little toughy).|
Gradually as the drug too affect her speech became slower, more slurred, her eyes started ticking back and forth like she was in the car watching telephone polls zoom by out the window. Eventually she was catatonic and the orthopedic surgeon came in to set her arm.
I was at her side, watching the whole thing up close. Mike said he was surprised that the guys just grabbed her arm and with his hands straightened it all out. I found that particularly comforting, actually. Sometimes I feel like medicine is too removed from our bodies. Everything is done with machines and not much is left to intuition and personal care and trusting our hands.
As the doctor set her bones she let out the saddest, slowest moan I've ever heard, "Ooooooooooooooouuuuch-eeeee." I felt my heart break a little further every second she sustained her slow-motion-cry. As she came out of the affects of the drug, he began hallucinating. The anesthesiologist said adults who are put under this way often talk about strange hallucinations. Ada hallucinated about bubbles. She raised her arm and began popping the imaginary things. Minutes passed and she recognized me, wanted to talk about mommy and her cousins and daddy.
All was right. Except for her purple fingers. Oh, and her broken arm.
We went back a week later for the hard cast. Hot pink. She began crying the second we stepped foot in the hospital. "Gee-na car!" (Get in the car!") "Bye bye! Gee-na car!"
She basically screamed the whole time we were there. But she got a stale sucker and a teddy bear out of the experience so it couldn't have been THAT bad. Plus, now she examines her cast with pride every time she undresses and says, "Ada's cool cast. It's pink."
I asked her last night if she wanted to take it off on Friday. She immediately cradled her arm and said, "No take it off! No take it off! Ada's cool cast! It's pink!"
(With any luck cast comes of tomorrow!!)