Broken

Some background: I get a call from the school office at least once a week. I'm not kidding. I'm on a first name basis with Rosanne and Joanne, the ever-patient secretaries/nurses in a pinch. Over the phone, a sheepish Eleanor usually goes on to explain that her head hurts, her stomach aches, her neck itches, her feet are hot, etc. And I usually respond with "Chin up, baby, and I'll see you in a few hours." However, last Friday, a deep cut to her thumb during Math led us to the Dr.'s office and a near miss with stitches.

So, yesterday, another phone call from Rosanne with an urgent request that I come to the school immediately. I enter through the glass double doors to a sobbing Eleanor, waiting on a familiar chair with blood stained knees, dirtied clothes, and an iced arm. "What happened?!" It's not even a good story, poor thing. A wild soccer ball hit her from afar and she lost her balance and landed on her wrist; she wasn't even playing soccer. We were off to the Dr.'s, again. Most of our Dr. visits end in a frustrated I wasted all of our time prognosis of "Well, there's really nothing I can do. Just rest and call me if it gets worst." Ugh. Not this time. He sent us immediatey to the hospital for some Xrays. Their prognosis? Two broken bones in the wrist. A cast, for sure. Poor Elle. We had to help her dress, bath, eat, sleep, etc. "It hurts so much," she says, "and how am I going to dress up for Halloween?" I sent her off this morning with Motrin, a prayer, a hug and a heart on her sling to remind her that her mamma is at home thinking of her. I am.