Injured at School

We only made it to the sixth day of school before I got the call. With trepidation, I answered. It was the school nurse. Some kids are accidents waiting to happen. Other kids are accidents that never stop.

Waffle had been playing sharks and minnows in gym class. It’s a version of tag with the hidden benefit of cardio and the unhidden benefit of being an apex predator. If you didn’t dream of dominating the aquatic food chain, what were you even doing with your childhood? I never played this exact game growing up, but the mechanics were familiar enough. In sharks and minnows, the two sides of the gym are safe, and the struggle between is a shuttle run. That sort of starting and stopping would have killed me as a child. I’m built for long, slow runs that continue on well after everyone else gets bored. The only races I win are the ones where everyone else quits to go do something more fun. Waffle, however, excels at the short, quick stuff. Her speed matches her attention span. She sprinted back and forth, giving her all to alternately catch her prey or avoid being eaten. As she ran, a pain began to build on the back of her foot above her heel. At first, it was a slight twinge. Then, it was a sharp stabbing sensation. She pushed through it. She couldn’t let those minnows get away. She kept going until she couldn’t bear it anymore. When she finally went to her gym teacher, she was in tears, but not from the physical pain. Nothing hurts more than knowing your delicious classmates escaped.

The gym teacher sent Waffle to the school nurse, who called me. My youngest was in too much pain to return to class. We were informed that we had to pick her up. Whatever sort of medical attention we pursued after that was up to us. We might go to the emergency room. We might do nothing. Maybe we’d pursue a compromise treatment, like black magic. There’s nothing more moderate than abusing the dark arts. I’m a generally laid-back parent, but I’ve learned over the years that I need to err on the side of too much care. I’ll never live down the time when my second oldest, Mae, fell off the monkey bars at school. She seemed fine at first, other than a little soreness in her arm. It certainly wasn’t something that would make us rush her to the doctor. A day or two later, she casually mentioned that she couldn’t raise her arm above her shoulder. A quick x-ray confirmed that Mae had a buckle fracture and that I was a terrible parent. She gained a sling and the fuel for the ultimate guilt trip. Who knows how far it could take her? At this rate, I’ll be paying for her flight to the moon.

I learned a very expensive lesson. When the third oldest (or second youngest), Lucy, complained of an arm injury years later, I rushed her to the doctor. She also had a buckle fracture. The circumstances of her injury were murkier. At the time, she claimed that she had simply fallen on the sidewalk in front of our house. We didn’t learn the real story until recently, when she admitted that Waffle had pushed her off a small trampoline at a neighbor’s house. Waffle shows up in a lot of our family’s most memorable injury stories. Usually, she’s the shark and not the minnow. That gym class was one of the first times she found herself on the receiving end of the teeth of life.

As soon as I hung up with the school nurse, I called Lola. I needed to talk to a real adult before I overreacted. She was on the same page as me. That’s how I knew it was serious. I told her that I could abandon work to pick up Waffle, but it would take me about an hour to get to her. Lola could be there in half that time. She pulled rank and left work, while I stayed put and watched her progress on Google Maps with a mix of admiration and jealousy. I wouldn’t have been disappointed if it were my turn to use some sick leave to save the day. I called the school nurse back to let her know Mom was en route. Waffle waited in the nurse’s room, icing her injury. For once in her life, she was forced to stay put. The only person who could stop her was her.

Lola and I took the situation especially seriously because Waffle isn’t one to complain. The school nurse felt the same way. We all agreed that Waffle wouldn’t opt out of running down her classmates unless it was absolutely necessary. She was equally unlikely to avoid regular class time. She likes being in school, which I’ll never understand. It’s more proof that Lola’s genes are stronger than mine. The fact that Waffle was missing a special and a regular class concerned me. The injury sounded like it was to her Achilles. I watch enough sports to know that’s the kind of thing that can derail a season, if not a career. I thought that kids Waffle’s age were immune to that type of damage. At this stage, their tendons and ligaments are basically rubber. She’s the exact opposite of me at my current age. I can throw out my back sneezing. If Waffle is vulnerable, there’s no hope for any of us. When my youngest daughter starts taking soft tissue damage, I might as well lie down and turn to dust.

Lola made swift progress. From my distant office, I watched her move on the maps app on my phone. In no time, she was at the school. Her dot and Waffle’s merged as one. I expected to see them reappear at immediate care the next time I refreshed my phone. Instead, they went to our house, where they stayed put. I texted, asking if Lola had gotten lost. More realistically, I figured that she had assessed the situation and decided that Waffle didn’t need medical care after all. The truth was that Waffle had requested the detour. She needed medical care, but she was hungry. An inconvenience becomes a tragedy when it gets in the way of lunch. Lola quickly cooked some pizza rolls in the air fryer. Sated, Waffle agreed to continue the journey. Whatever lay ahead, it would be easier to face with a stomach full of pepperoni.

Immediate care proved to be a popular destination. The waiting room was full. The majority of other patients were suffering from a condition called employment. A local company made a wave of hires and required drug tests before their first day. You wouldn’t think that peeing in a jar would take that long. With as much diet soda as I chug, I can do it at will anytime, day or night. It’s basically a party trick. The rest of the crowd was not so blessed. The line moved slowly. One by one, the new hires disappeared into the treatment area, then emerged and left the building. Waffle waited patiently, still icing the back of her foot. At her age, ice packs still have magical healing properties. It’s not quite the same effect as kissing a booboo or attaching a Band-Aid for a non-injury, but it’s close. Finally, after a forty-minute wait, Waffle made it into an exam room. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had been right to eat those pizza rolls before she went in. Had she waited until after, she might have starved to death.

A nurse took all of Waffle’s vitals and typed notes about what happened leading up to the injury. The next step was taking x-rays. Waffle micro-dosed radiation, then returned to the exam room to wait some more. The minutes crawled by. I watched Lola’s dot on my map as it stayed in place. I pestered her for updates. I’m equally annoying up close and from a distance. Lola didn’t have anything new to report. As time passed, I became more worried. I feared that the nurse practitioner was taking her time to double and triple check her data before she delivered bad news. Waffle was unconcerned. She had her phone, which gave her access to all her usual entertainment options. She amused herself with games or YouTube or whatever it is she does on there. As long as it’s not sports gambling, I’m fine with it. Actually, even if it is sports gambling, I’d approve as long as she won. At the moment, I was more concerned that she wouldn’t luck out and have only a minor injury. With Waffle, the odds are never good.

After what seemed like months but was likely just half an hour, the nurse practitioner returned to the exam room.