Rose. Age 21. Daughter number 3, sixth child.
Fell off a moped during the final afternoon of labor day beach vacation.
Broke both right forearm bones.
” Road Rash” up and down her legs.
Now she has some hardware in her arm. A plate, pins and screws pulling the broken pieces all together. It’s been a long couple of weeks.
Before her surgery, she cried. I spoke softly to her and said the prayers from her childhood to comfort her.
After her surgery I slept by her. Gave her the pain medications, help her with all her needs, took her to the doctor and made repeated calls to him when she had questions.
I wiped her tears as she saw the track surgical scar run down her arm and the new shape of the back of her hand.
I handled the insurance company, her school medical leave letters and hooked her up with a decent physical therapist.
Now it’s 3 weeks post-op and the girl is back to normal.
Offended if I ask her if she wants me to cut a tag off the back of her shirt.
The cuddle-muffin who lay in my bed night after night is angry that I appeared at her PT appointment.
Miss Independent is back and I am left wondering if that momentary bond we shared when she was in pain and scared ever really happened.