Finding Balance

It became obvious to me on Sunday that the principle of balance is of paramount importance to Adam. I was just starting my lesson with my adorable, almost-twelve, heathen Primary class, when Darrin appeared at the door. 

Darrin: Got a minute?

Me: Only one--I just got their attention--I want to keep it.

Darrin: What's your lesson on?

Me: Why?

Darrin: I think I should teach it.

Me: Why?

Darrin: Follow me, please.

Miffed, I walked from my classroom to find Adam standing in the hallway, his left forefinger wrapped in bright red paper towels. Darrin looked ill. Adam briefly flashed his injured hand at me, enough for me to see the top half of the fingernail had been ripped off and the fingertip was mangled. I asked Darrin if he could take Adam to the emergency room. He suggested it would be better if he taught my lesson, as he was certain driving Adam to the emergency room would be interrupted by frequent stops to allow time for puking (Darrin's, not Adam's). 

I briefly told Darrin my lesson plans, said good-by to my class, and took Adam to the car. All the way to the emergency room he asked questions about what would happen. I told him I had no idea, which wasn't strictly true, but I was fairly certain he didn't really want to know. I asked Adam how the injury happened. Apparently, as he sat in his folding chair, it folded up (no, he doesn't know how), catching his fingertip. 

When we got into the initial exam room, the nurse began looking at Adam's previously injured forefinger. I said, "No--that one was from last week." She blinked at me, noticed the paper towels were covering a bleeding finger, not the blackened weird looking one, and checked Adam into a treatment room.

At this point I was feeling aggravated at Darrin for being a wuss--mostly because I was still really sleepy. Adam asked if I'd call DJ to come stay with him. That seemed a good idea. DJ arrived within five minutes. 

An x-ray revealed a fractured fingertip. The doctor wanted to remove the remaining nail to make sure there was no laceration beneath it. Apparently, if there is, the break is considered an open fracture and prone to infection--very bad. Adam was having none of it. He pitched a fit and said he didn't want any needles. The doctor looked dismayed. She suggested they just wrap the finger and refer him to an orthopedic clinic the next day. I know Adam. If we went home, there was no way he would go willingly to another clinic. 

I said no--we needed to do the procedure, so the doctor readied the injection. Adam became more agitated. DJ and I moved to restrain him. The doctor looked at us and said to Adam, "You're a minor, which means your mom has the final say in your treatment. But you're too big for me to fight with you, and we have no means of restraining you that I will use. Unless your mom insists, I'd prefer not to treat you in this state." Adam asked what the alternative was. She said they'd just wrap the finger and send him home. He opted for that. I said nothing.

When the doctor left the room, DJ was beside himself. He spent ten minutes lecturing Adam, telling him the risks of infection, talking about how stupid Adam's choice was. Normally I would have intervened, telling DJ to back off. Sunday, I was just too tired. In the meantime, Darrin and Tabitha showed up to see what was taking so long (three hours had elapsed). I briefly explained that Adam had refused treatment. I tried to tell Darrin about the injury, but he turned a shade of green and said he needed to leave. Tabitha went with him. 

Then this conversation took place:

Adam: Mom, aren't you going to say anything?

Me: Nope.

Adam: You're not going to tell me I have to do the procedure?

Me: Nope.

Adam: Why?

Me: It's your finger. It hurts now. It will hurt differently if it gets infected. But it might not get infected, you never know. It might just heal up very nicely.

DJ: Mom! He needs to get it treated!

Me: I'm too tired to care right now. And I'm with the doctor on this one--I'm not fighting with Adam.

DJ huffed and muttered. Adam wept. The nurse came in to wrap his finger. Adam asked her how many needle pokes he would get if they treated his finger. She told him four--and she said they would definitely hurt. Then she said if there was a laceration under his nail, chances were good that his finger would become infected. Adam said he wanted to think about having the treatment. I told him we weren't playing games today. If he chose to have it done, there was no changing his mind, hiding in the bathroom, asking for time, coming up with creative treatment ideas--he just had to sit still and let the doctor do her job, even if it hurt. He agreed.

The nurse held one corner of a towel and I held the other to block Adam's view of the procedure. This turned out to be a very good idea, as the doctor was hurrying and at one point pushed the Novocaine needle into one side of Adam's finger and out the other. DJ and I exchanged horrified "that's not good" looks. The doctor quickly rectified the mistake, but Adam had been counting. He let her know there were five needle pokes, not four, and told her that wasn't fair. 

DJ watched as the fingernail was removed (not really descriptive enough, as a fairly violent ripping of the nail from it's bed was involved), and made certain part of it was saved as a souvenir for Adam. As the doctor had predicted, there was a large laceration worthy of eight stitches underneath, then they sutured on a fake nail to protect the nail bed, bringing the total stitch count to twelve. Adam was very proud. 

I mentioned to Adam that sometimes being unbalanced is much better than equalizing injuries so that both hands look the same. He gave me a dirty look and wondered if he'd be able to use his computer without his forefingers.

When we got home from the ER and Adam got some strong painkiller in him, he wanted to talk about what had happened--in great detail. We were eating a late lunch and Darrin started saying (loudly) that it was inappropriate to talk about such things at the table. What he really meant was that Adam couldn't talk about his injury at all if Darrin was around. I have allowed Darrin to insist on this every time our children have been hurt, because I understand that it makes Darrin uncomfortable and frustrated and sick. This time, however, I decided it's time for a change. I asked Darrin to leave the room with me.

Me: Darrin, he needs to talk about it.

Darrin: No. He doesn't.

Me: Yes. He does. This was very traumatic for him in many ways. He needs to talk it out.

Darrin: Not to me.

Me: Yes. To you. You're his dad. He needs to know that you understand how much he was hurt emotionally and physically. He needs to hear you tell him he was brave. And you need to listen--no matter how uncomfortable it makes you, it can't compare to what he's been through.

Darrin looked at me for a long time. I thought he was going to go into his "No, I can't stand that kind of stuff" routine. Then he said, "You're right. But can we keep the details to a minimum?" "I don't know," I answered, "but I think, once he knows you're hearing him, his need to keep talking will diminish." So Darrin and I returned to the table, and Adam regaled us with his adventure. I made sure Tabitha didn't ask questions until Darrin had gone to take his Sunday nap, then she listened raptly, as Adam and DJ (who had carefully watched the entire procedure) gave her a detailed recounting of the ER visit. 

Adam stayed home from school yesterday--and I finally got the sleep I had been wanting on Sunday. Today we get to go back for a recheck and they'll change the dressing, then I'm sending Adam to school. I have a feeling he'll have a highly appreciative audience there, and talking about trauma is often the most healing part. It will be good for him.