It's Only a Matter of Time

"Tiff," she sounded amped and exhausted all at once, "I'm on the way to Children's Hospital. Jeremiah had an accident on the four-wheeler."
And there it is, that loss of air and sharp pang of clarity. I have to get there.

This is the kid who when he was little would take a shower and use the scent blocking deer soap, and then? Well then he'd slowly open the bathroom door and creep, stark naked, into the living room along the wall whispering, "You can't seeeeeee me. I'm invisible 'cause of the soap!"

This is the kid who pitched a fit about going somewhere when he was three or so. My Mom threw up her hands in exasperation and tossed his shoes on the floor. He sat, tiny and crying on the second step of the staircase, head in his hands. I went over, knelt down, holding his shoes in one hand and ruffling his hair with the other. "Let's see how fast we can get these shoes on, ok? I bet we can do it in 20 seconds! What do you think?" Peering up at me with fat teardrops rolling over his long, thick eyelashes he sobbed and collapsed into me wailing, "It's just not fair!"

This is the kid who is growing taller and kinder and more perceptive each year that passes. He is handsome in a way he doesn't even realize yet. And within him is the promise of a life so big and so good and whatever he wants to make of it.

I arrived at Children's Hospital and sprinted into the ER. It was jammed with sniffling children, worried parents and the antiseptic scent of fear. I stopped a nurse walking by, "Excuse me. I'm here to see my brother, Jeremiah?" And then the look I've seen a thousand times. The look of a woman charmed by the Bullfrog. "Oh you're his sister?! Oh I just love your brother. He is so polite. Do you know that we were trying to take x-rays and he is in such terrible pain and he just kept saying, 'Please, if you don't mind, don't touch my arm'," she laughed. "Imagine that. Here he is teaching us that even in the worst situation, you can still be kind!" She shook her head, put her arm around me and led me back, behind those swinging metal doors.

I could hear him first. The screaming. That's when I realized that pain has a sound. It's specific and guttural. And then there was silence and murmuring doctors and then of all things, laughter. Loud, raucous and somewhat relieved. A few minutes later the doors opened and I saw him laying on the gurney in a neck brace, the white of a bone protruding out of his forearm. He was pale and grimacing. But strong.

That night was long as we waited to be told how bad things were. Morphine didn't work. No matter how much was pumped in, he screamed in agony. As they set his bones (four breaks in all) he cried out and my gut twisted and I sweated and swore I would take his pain if I could.

And all the while, the doctors and nurses marveled at him. "What an awesome kid," they said over and over. And he really is. And he's ok. He will heal. We all do.