Motherhood and a broken leg

I've gone through several stages of cognitive and emotional overhaul following Nellie's accident. Today, as we near the end of this chapter, Nellie's crutches and wheelchair are very much normal. But the earlier days brought minute-by-minute waves of life-changing realizations.

Stage 1: Uncertain concern. In the first minutes, there was screaming, yelling, nausea, scrapes, and bruises. But...here was a child known for strong reactions to physical discomfort. We carried her gingerly from the sledding hill in the neighbor's yard, then into Sarah and Alex's house. When Nellie got up to use the bathroom a couple of hours later, however, she couldn't put weight on it and it swelled up like a cantaloupe. Kevin and I shared one look and he swept her off to urgent care. Still, Kevin quietly told me that if she broke it, she'd still be yelling and screaming. Right?

Stage 2: Shock and adrenaline. "I'm not a doctor, but that's a broken leg," Kevin texted me as the x-ray lit the screen. I was surprised, though I also felt that little sense of relief that comes with having a diagnosis and knowing you're with smart people who know what to do. Nellie rode in an ambulance to the hospital where they would put a splint on her leg. I immediately went into mom-mode. I picked up the house in record time, cleaned her room, the stairs, and the hallway to clear her path, folded her clean laundry that had lingered for a week, and turned down her bed. I set out ibuprofen and Tylenol, water, and her books. I gathered extra pillows and made sure the ice packs were in the freezer.

Stage 3: Realization. I drove to pick up Nellie and Kevin at midnight. After getting through security and figuring out how to access the pediatric ER, I finally found them. Nellie was trying to stand and try crutches for the first time, in a heavy full-leg splint and wrap. She was still a little loopy and talkative. The nurses found the right size crutches and I accompanied them to the bathroom. That's when I realized lots of things all at once.

For one, I realized how much pain she was in. Every movement was slow and anguished. Second, I realized how much help she would need--an understanding that continued to unfold over the next few days. This child who is independent by nature and growing more so by the day as a 12-and-a-half-year-old was going to be fully dependent, primarily on me, for all her physical needs for a long time. Third, I realized that my "preparations" at home meant nothing. Nellie would not be going upstairs to her bedroom. She would not be hopping around on crutches any time soon. She would be laid up for a while. With her leg fully extended, she couldn't ride in the car without sitting across the bench seat--we wouldn't go anywhere in the car all together for weeks. She couldn't sit in a desk at school. She couldn't move her leg to stand up, sit down, or shift position without someone else lifting it for her. There would be no scooter or walking cast. Fourth, all the questions and disappointments around school and the musical came rushing at me. Could she? Would she? I wasn't at all sure.

We made it home, running on adrenaline and in Nellie's case, serious medication. We got her somewhat settled on the couch, which worked for part of a night before it was too painful for her heel (we discovered weeks later it had ulcers from too much cast pressure). We moved her into the chair, where she slept for the next eight weeks; the first two weeks one of us slept on the couch to be nearby. In all this came little waves of horror. I kept replaying the moment she fell of the sled in my mind, no matter how hard I tried not to. What if she'd hit her head instead? What if the sled had just gone a couple feet to the side and it had never happened? The look on her face as her eyes searched mine for some ounce of comfort still haunts me. I suppose it was a reminder more than a new discovery, but this broken leg was one of those defining moments when you recognize that there's really very little you can do to protect your children, and one second can change you for good. And we all have to live knowing that every day.

It was so good to see Nellie smile in those first days! This chair, with four pillows and two blankets arranged just right, would be her seat and bed for eight weeks.

Stage 4: Logistics, learning, and growth. We learned so much. We learned about orthopedic medicine, splits, casts, and how to adjust and navigate wheelchairs. We learned how to get in and out of large vehicles, which was no small feat. We learned what worked to sleep and bathe. A strange form of muscle memory set in and I drew from my experience caring for a girl about Nellie's age with cerebral palsy for two summers while I was in college. We learned, eventually, how to ease Nellie's pain and discomfort, which waxed and waned through different activities and new casts. We learned how to navigate school dropoff and pickup and Nellie learned how to do school from a wheelchair. Nellie would miss nearly a week and a half of school. We learned how to function when we lost our "big kid" helper and she became the one in need of the most care.

First meal at the table, over two weeks after the accident

I knew from that first morning after that Nellie's broken leg was changing me. As I mentioned, it added this strange fear/trust dichotomy--there's so much fear in knowing that your kids will face difficulty that you can't control or fix that the only way to survive it is to trust that God will equip you to walk through it. And that's what He did. My prayer was basically God, please help me. I don't know how to do this. Please be with me and help me to be the kind of mom Nellie needs.

And He did. At school, we've been talking for a few years about formational learning experiences. I got a first-hand look at what it feels like to be formed in a hurry. Caring for Nellie has required me to be better than I am--more patient, calmer, stronger physically and emotionally, and certainly more empathetic to parents of children with disabilities that don't heal. Early on, there were many times I didn't think we'd survive eight weeks. If I'm being honest, I was afraid Nellie and I might kill each other. Let's just say that a strong-willed preteen in pain plus a no-nonsense mom isn't a great combination. But even in those moments--maybe especially in those moments--there was a sweetness, a strange bending of time in which I was again taking care of my Nellie-baby. I've never been particularly sentimental about parenting; this was new. Nellie had been in a phase where I'd have to use a sneak attack just to hug her, and there we were, in a near-constant state of physical and emotional closeness. Even in the middle of that stage with all its challenges, I already missed it.

I hope and pray that our family is done with broken bones and injuries for a long time. But I also recognize the ways in which we are changed as a family and changed as individuals. It's just another chapter in our story, one that in the end, I'm grateful for.