Real Life, Chapter II

He’s hurt, but he’s not broke.

After posting the update yesterday, he watched another video and then it was time to head back across town to the doctor—his gigantic throbbing green ankle had gone down some due to the restorative power of loose packaged frozen beans and peas, so I gingerly slid his sock and shoe on his feeties and started toward the door. Hop. Hophophop. Hop. Sad puppy dog eyes.

“D’you want me to carry you out to the van?” Happy puppy dog eyes and a giggle. I hoisted him up (after clearing the threshold—no use adding a head injury from the door frame into the mix) and we waddled out to the van. He has somehow grown up without my knowledge. The little stringy bag of sticks I could once tuck under my arm like a newpaper has somehow become as dense as lead and as ungainly to tote as an oil drum. Or maybe I’m just getting old.

Nah.

Anyway, off to St. Vincent’s—the big event was getting to see an airplane coming into the airport. Birmingham’s aerodrome is just to the east of downtown and the main runway parallels the interstate, so it’s easy to see what all’s going on. Also sort of disconcerting if you’re new to town and suddenly a 757 comes barreling over the roadway out of nowhere. (Actually, that’s kind of scary even if you live here.)

Got to the parking deck and wondered how I was going to lug him into the professional building without stroking out, but thanks to an understanding attendant at the parking booth (and no small amount of charming desperation) I was able to park one of the spots by the doors for mamas in labor. Still seems like they would have had some wheelchairs parked close by, too, but, you know… I got him and managed to get him off the ground and his limbs wrapped around me enough to get to the elevator and then it was down the long hall. And a long haul it was. I readjusted him so that he hung over my shoulder like a cement sack, which was a bit more easy to manage than the grip I did have on him.

Got in, signed in, sat down.

Waited.

Read Entertainment Weekly.

Wondered why.

Tried to make him more comfortable by propping his foot on a chair.

Didn’t work.

Waited.

Finally got called back to an exam room.

Waited.

He then became very interested in the Glaxo poster on the back of the door about the inner ear and otitis media, so we had an impromptu anatomy and physiology lesson, which took up several minutes. (I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV.) We looked at Vulcan for a while. Watched the cars on the Red Mountain Expressway. Rummaged around in the drawers.

Finally, the doc came in and got down to business. She gently poked and prodded and moved his ankle—he was so touchy that it was hard for her to pin down exactly how much and where it hurt. She was very concerned that with all the swelling it might have been broken, so it was off to the x-ray room.

Wait.

We did have some distraction—a little toddler girl kept throwing her stuffed kitty at us, which gave her untold delight. Jonathan would patiently hop up and get it and toss it to her or put it on her head or tickle her tummy with it, which further drove her to fits of glee. I don’t think I have ever seen a nine year old boy who is so good with babies—whenever we’re out and see someone with a baby, he is just fascinated and really seems to enjoy playing big brother to them. He was like this with Catherine, too, but she has since grown to the point of being able to handily overpower him, so he has to be wary of her. Little kids, though, he does fine.

After a while he got called back and hopped up onto the table—top and side of both ankles, then back out to the waiting area. To wait.

Got the call to come back to the office and saw the pictures on the light box. Again, since I have so much medical experience, my trained diagnosis was that there were no breaks or chips or dents or dings or divots out of the hard parts, which was confirmed by the doctor. Just a bad sprain. Ice, ibuprofin, rest. “Well, little buddy, I guess you just missed out on a trip to the glue factory.” Which brought a snicker from the doc and a quizzical “Glue factory?!” from Boy. He’s used to not understanding what the heck I’m talking about, so he just laughed along with the joke.

Paid my copay with my lunch money for the week and it was time to umph him back down the hallway. This time I got him in a fireman’s carry, which is really the only way to carry someone without hurting both of you, and then on out to the van.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, bud.”

“You know, McDonald’s is really close, and I’m sort of hungry…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, do you think we could go there and get something?”

“Hmm—I don’t have enough cash left to get you a full meal, and you’re going to eat supper in just a little while anyway; it’ll have to be something small.”

We pulled up at the drive-through—“What about an M&M McFlurry, bud?”

“YEAH!! SWEET!”

Well, the doctor DID say something about keeping his ankle cold. And he has such cute puppy dog eyes.

(Of course, now all of his sisters are trying to figure out a way to score a shake, too—except without the need for painful injury.)

So, anyway, he should make a full recovery, although he will have to be spoiled mercilessly over the next few days or so—Grandmom’s taking care of that chore today, so I’m sure he’ll be quite helpless by the end of the day. Many thanks to all of you who wrote in to express your get well wishes for him. I appreciate it immensely and Little Boy does, too.
posted by Terry at 11:36:00 AM