I can see it replay in nightmare-ish speed: A 2.5-year-old in my class moved quickly down the slide in the gym on his knees, reached the end and tumbled oddly. I watched him and felt that "hmm, that was weird" teacher-feeling. He stood up, crying and his forearm looked distinctly curved. Oh. Gasp. Look at his arm. I was already moving toward him, quick as I could.
All in about 3 seconds.
I swooped in, Hey, hey, it's OK, friend. We rushed out of the gym, toward the office as quick as I could move. Call and tell them I'm coming. It's his arm. I stayed on his non-injured side, moving as fast as I could, calm as I could pretend to be. I picked him up. He grabbed at me with his mangled arm. It's OK. You're doing so good! I'm so proud of you. Let's see what we can do. Want to sing a song? Let's sing a song.
Arm slinged. Mom called. Mom in cab. Deep breaths.
We sat at my desk, looking through drawers for interesting stuff. What's this? A baseball, yes! Let's sing "Go Cubs Go."
We were both hot as can be. He was wet and teary. I hear my eyes were as big as saucers as I watched, comforted and held this little broken-armed friend. His mommy walked in. We hopped in a cab. Off to Children's.
Triage, registration, X-ray (in a lead outfit!), kids movies on the Children's Hospital tvs, deep breaths. Broken. Fractured in two spots. Calls to daddy, nanny, grandma. Deep breaths.
Motrin. Numbing cream for the IV. Morphine. Ketamine (seriously!). Conscious sedation.
Doctors placed his bones back where they belong. He was back home eating hotdogs with his arm in a cast before I got home from work.
Now it's just more deep breaths.
2 comments:
So you aren't allowed to take the kid to hospital or have an ambulance called? You had to wait for it's mom to show up?
No, we can take them in ambulances, but she was quick and it wasn't so dire we needed an ambulance. But we are totally allowed to.
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