When my youngest brother was in 5th or 6th grade, our high school went down state for something. It might have been track and field, but it could very well have been something else entirely. It must have been late spring, right before school was out, because it was a hot week. Going downstate was a big deal for our high school. It didn’t happen all the time as we were a small, private school. I didn’t go. I think I was in college at that point. Or maybe I was already working. The details of this story have faded, much like an old Polaroid whose subjects are somewhat blurry - you can see the big picture, but the details aren’t fully in focus.
I do remember that at some point that day, my brother found my mom and told her he couldn’t breathe. “I’m sure you’re fine, drink some water and stop running around.” A while later he returned, complaining that he really couldn’t breathe. She waved him off again. “It’s probably the heat. Go find some shade and cool off.” Like a gnat to a rotten banana, he came back. Slightly bothered, she pushed a $10 bill into his palm. “Go buy a gatorade. Drink it and let’s see if that helps.” It did not. He returned, gatorade in hand, visibly bothered, complaining again. Visibly annoyed (as parents who think their kids are exaggerating generally are), my mom brought him to a first aid stand, sure he was overheating. To her dismay, it turns out he was having an asthma attack and was getting a dangerously low level of oxygen. It’s a story she has never lived down. ************** Today at recess, I heard my name called, slightly more urgently than usual. It was the 5th grade boys playing basketball. They never, ever call me over. In fact, they had actually stopped their game. Not even the most competitive attempted a shot. “What’s up, guys?” I headed over. “Yeah, Brian* broke his hand, or maybe just his finger.” Still far enough away, I rolled my eyes. Dramatic, I thought. When I got closer, he stuck his hand out. His pinky finger bent up and then down with an unnatural crook in it. It was bright red. Not a kid to ever complain of an injury, I could tell it hurt. Brian tried shaking it off, but his face betrayed him. “Huh,” I said. “Yeah, I think you’re headed in to the nurse.” In he went. I figured I wouldn’t see it again, but there he was, ten minutes later. “Did you call home, Brian?” I asked, surprised he wasn’t being picked up. “Yeah, I talked to my dad. He said I should stay here and that he’d look at it tonight.” I smiled. Classic. That is such a classic parent move. You’re fine. You’ll be alright. Drink some water. Give it 10 minutes. Let’s see how it is tomorrow. Buy yourself a gatorade. Most times, our kids’ complaints are nothing. They go away. But sometimes, they don’t. It turns out to be a raging ear infection. A fractured bone. An asthma attack. A broken finger. And those are the stories that live to be told a thousand times over.
1 Comment
Sara T.
4/4/2022 07:58:21 pm
Okay, I need to know if his finger was broken or not!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
Categories |