Break

Such a pretty day.  The kids are finished with school work, and I think, "I'd really rather lay and read a book, but I will be a good mom and get them out in the woods for a little hike". So off we go to Umstead State Park, where they have a 'kid's hike', .6 miles along a windy stream, lots of tree identification signs, fun little bridges, and cool rocks to play on.  We imagine ourselves coming back in the spring and summer to play in the creek.  More than half-way through the hike, we come upon a really cool group of rocks, with a tree growing out of the middle of them.

We inspect the roots, and wonder at how this towering tree could have its base in a rock, when suddenly, I hear a sickening thump to my right, and immediately a guttural yell that tells me this isn't just drama.  Having fallen about 6 feet to the ground, Caden is in a heap. I pick him up gingerly and try to get a look at the arm, but he isn't having it.  So I get him on my back, and out of the woods we go.
About this point, I thank God that the path is clearly marked and we aren't more than a quarter mile from the car.  I think about calling Shann, but with Caden on my back, and the crying in my ear, I know a phone call isn't possible yet.  Alyssa trailing behind me, asking lots of questions, whimpering, and wondering what I am going to do to fix this.  Adrenaline, thank you.
At the car, I put him in his seat, and after a quick glance, I know we need a doctor.  Odd lumps that shouldn't be in an elbow.  I get him belted, and when on the road, get a hold of Shann to tell him Caden has fallen, and things aren't quite right, and we are heading to urgent care.  Carry Caden in on my back, get him in a wheel chair, and check in.  Why do they not pick a faster typist for registration at an emergency facility?  After a nurse takes a look at his arm, they start morphine, and shortly after that, Shann arrives. About this time, having no more tasks to complete, I cry.

A couple x-rays later, we are told that he'll need surgery, and will get transferred to a big hospital in Raleigh. The 2 bones in the forearm pushed back on impact, breaking off the bottom of the humerus.  The doctor is pretty sure screws will be used to put parts back together. Shann asks if he'll have to teach his son to throw with his left arm. 
I take Alyssa home, where Shann's parents come to pick her up.  I pack her for overnight with Grammy and Poppy, and us for a stay at the hospital, and she follows me around, sobbing.  Crying that she can't ride in the ambulance, that she can't be with Caden, that she can't be with us, worried that Caden isn't OK.  Several times, sobbing that she just wants to go to bed. Poor baby.  As soon as Shann's parents arrive, I drive back to urgent care, and then Shann and I follow the ambulance to the hospital.

We arrive at the hospital before 7pm.  Lots of questions from nurses. More morphine.  Lots of crying and moaning, and Caden wishing he could eat something or drink something. Wishing he hadn't fallen.  Me wondering why, for the first time ever, I decided to take the kids on a hike without Daddy. Caden deciding this definitely is the worst day of his life, even though he's thought so before. Hours later, they are getting ready to put Caden under, so two Orthopedists can adjust his bones in his arm to put them into alignment so they don't damage nerves or poke through the skin before surgery the next day.  They're about to put him under, when another more urgent case calls them away.  Several hours of Shann and I dozing upright in plastic chairs while listening to the vice-presidential debate and the beep of machines.  I squeeze in a few pages of Francine Rivers through dim light and dim eyes.   Finally around 3:30 am, the doctors return, put the boy to sleep, and perform the procedure, which they do with the arm in an x-ray machine to make sure alignment is good.  Then we waited for him to come out of anesthesia and get lucid again, which is tricky at 4 o'clock in the morning.  Next we wait for Radiology to become available. More x-rays to make sure alignment is actually good.  Take vitals. Finally, around 5am, we're taken to a hospital room.  More questions, vitals, then horizontal sleep for us for more than an hour!

6:30 am: prep for surgery.  Questions. Vitals. I'm eyeing up the surgeon's hands to see if they're shaking or anything.  I ask him if he's the best around.  Yes, he says.  He fixes more than 5 of this same break every week.  I want to pray with Caden, but knowing I'll cry, I do it silently, only to look down and see that he's praying. 7:30 am: surgery.  Shann and I get breakfast and then meet our baby boy in post-op, where he's waking up confused and scared, 3 pins in his arm.  Shann can tell when he's about to open his eyes based on the spike in the heart monitor.  I feed him ice chips when his eyes are open, excited that he's finally allowed to ingest something.  10 minutes later, more fully awake, he loses ice chips and more all over the bed.  Before we can move back to our hospital room, all bedding, clothing, etc, is changed. Vitals.

Most of Friday is spent with pain killers and trying to get him to eat, which he isn't in the mood for now.  We nap, watch a movie, and watch nurses taking vitals some more and filling him with hydration through a bag. As the day wears on, we become more concerned about his shoulder, which is 2 or 3 times the size of the other one, and extremely sensitive to the touch. What if he injured his shoulder and we're sent home not knowing?  So about the time we could be going home, we head down for more x-rays, where seemingly kind technicians see how many painful positions they can put him in to get pictures. After radiology, the surgeon comes in to tell us his growth plate at the top of the humerus bone is a bit separated from the shoulder. This is treated with a sling, which he has. But because of the immense amount of swelling in the shoulder, he will saw the cast top and bottom to allow for more room. Caden is not a fan of the saw.  He freaks out, screaming as the doctor uses power tool. We coach him though it with breathing techniques like a woman in labor.  After procedure, the surgeon tells us he's been awake for 36 hours.  Good thing I didn't know that this morning.  Best doctor around with no sleep?  Hm.

7:30 pm: we make the decision to go home. Caden is ready, and so are we.  After getting pain killer prescription filled, we arrive home around 9pm.  Bath him with a garbage bag on his arm, to get off crazy amount of dirt from hike, vomit remnants, and general hospital yuckiness. Sweet sleep for all, with occasional awakenings to give pain medication. 
Saturday, Caden is dizzy and nauseated as the anesthesia and several medicines work their way out.

Today, Tuesday, he's a normal kid with a cast.  We're told he'll be back to health after wearing the cast and sling for a month.  Our God is amazing.
I so wish I'd laid on the couch and read a book last Thursday though.