Click here to read Part I of this story.

Click here, to read Part II of this story.

****

The day Carsten entered the world, he did it with a lot of dramatic flair.

I went into labor with him two months prematurely, to begin with, and because of that fact, I had to be airlifted, via helicopter, to a hospital in Chicago. Upon arriving in Chicago and being examined by the doctor there, it was determined that an emergency C-section was in order, and I was bumped to the head of the line, pushing back about 7 other C-sections that had been scheduled ahead of mine. In other words: our situation was critical.

As if that whole ball of baby wax weren’t enough for a first time birth experience, Noel happened to be in New York that morning, when all of this was going down, and it was a race against time for him to catch a flight out of LaGuardia, into O’Hare, in what was, quite literally, the nick of time for the birth of his son.

Perhaps it was due to the post-partum hormonal roller coaster ride that I was on then, but for a long time, I had a hard time telling my “birth story” without feeling a lump rise up in my throat, followed by the subsequent willing myself to keep it together. For whatever reason, retelling the whole story just always made me want to dissolve into tears, and it went on this way for a long time. Maybe because when you’re a new mom, surrounded by other new moms, you tell your birth stories. It’s what you do. So I was forever reliving that crazy day.

With a bit of time and perspective, though, I was eventually able to tell the story according to the Three Sentence Theory — a theory which, I don’t really know exists as a theory, per se, but the idea behind it is, when you are faced with what seems like a monumentally insurmountable or stressful situation, try to remember that, no matter how bad something seems, one day you will be able to summarize that entire stressful/bad/terrorizing/unexpected/traumatic “thing” in a mere three sentences. So, eventually, when talking about my first birth experience, I was able to say, “I had a baby. He was born 8 weeks prematurely. But it all worked out ok.”

Anyway, I’d like to just give you all the Three Sentence version of the rest of the story, but that wouldn’t be very fair of me now, would it? If you’re here reading right now, I’m sure you expect to hear all the details. And really the truth is…I’m not yet ready to tell the Three Sentence version, and because of that, I feel like I’ve stalled out a bit on writing this last part of the story, because next to the part where Carsten emerged from the ocean, holding up his broken arm, this has proven to be the hardest part to retell, even in writing. Who knew that a lump in your throat could be just as powerful in your fingers?

This would probably be easier, you know, if we were sitting in a little coffee shop together, or maybe, if you were at my kitchen table, or we were in the gym, with a treadmill to distract us. Because if we were sitting (or walking) face-to-face, I would start to tell you this story, but then, you would help me out.

See, I would tell you, that once we made the decision to let the PA attempt to reduce Carsten’s fracture, things (for once!) moved rather quickly. I would tell you that I sat down in a chair with Anna, and that the PA began the numbing process, which entailed sticking a needle directly into Carsten’s arm, and injecting Lidocaine right into the fracture site.

Then, you would help me out by saying, “Oh my!!! Did he cry?” And I would say, “Oh. My God. YES. Not only did he cry, but he screamed.” And you would ask me, “How could you stand it?” And I would tell you that…..I couldn’t. I would tell you that, at that point, I decided I needed to leave the room. I wasn’t being of any use, and if this was just the beginning, I didn’t know if I could stand much more.

And you would ask me, “Well, what did you do?” To which I would reply, “Well, seeing my distress, the nicest, kindest, person in the entire clinic (and possibly the entire world), whose sole purpose – though she was dressed in scrubs and appeared to be a nurse – whose sole purpose seemed to be caring for my emotional welfare, escorted me and Anna down a hall, into an unused room. While she was asking us if we needed anything – something to drink? anything to eat? blankets? – Noel came into the room, and asked me if I could please come down to the other room with him and hold Carsten’s hand, because he [Noel] was going to assist the PA with the reduction.”

Well, your eyes would get a little bit big at that revelation, and you would ask me, “Did you go??” And I would say, somewhat guiltily, “Well. No. The lovely woman who was attending to me and Anna jumped to my rescue, actually. She said, “No. You stay here. I will go down there, and I will be you, because no mother should have to go through that.” Then I will tell you about how grateful I felt to her, because I was feeling immense guilt for wanting to say No, I don’t think I can do that, and by her words and her actions, she validated what it was I was felling, while simultaneously telling me It’s ok; I understand.

At this point in the story, we would both take a sip of our coffee, or maybe adjust the incline on our treadmills, and I would begin to anticipate what you were going to ask next, which would inevitably be: So, was it bad?

And I would tell you that Well, yes, it was bad. But really, it was more than bad; it was really, truly, quite horrible. I would tell you that, though I sat behind a closed door, at the end of a hall, and though Carsten and his crew were also behind a closed door at the opposite end of the hall, that those barriers of doors, and walls, and hallways did absolutely nothing to block out the crying and the screaming, that could easily be heard from where I sat…..the crying and the screaming that seemed to go on, and on, and on.

Your eyes might go a bit wide when I tell you this, or maybe your hand would go, somewhat involuntarily, up to your mouth at this point, and we’d let the silence settle between us for a moment – you, imagining that scenario, and me, reliving it. That sympathetic look on your face would make that lump creep back into my throat, and I’d mentally remind my to keep it together, so I’d quickly choke out the rest of the story, doing my best to keep it together.

I’d tell you how, yeah, that part was horrible, but probably not as horrible for me as it was for Noel, who was actually assisting the PA with the reduction, because really, can you imagine being the one having to hold your son’s broken arm taut, so that another person could wiggle those broken bones back into place, all through the crying and the screaming? And you would be all, Are you kidding me?! And I’d be all, Nope, and I’d know that, even if you didn’t say it, you would probably be thinking Jesus. Would I be able to do that? Because let’s be honest: not a lot of parents could.

Finally, though, I would (gladly) cut through that intense moment, and I would tell you the good part of the story, which was that, after about 20 minutes and four attempts, Noel and the PA were able to successfully get Carsten’s bones at least somewhat realigned.

The PA then took a photo of the x-ray of the reduction, and emailed it to an orthopedic surgeon in St. Thomas. Because that’s how things operate on the island: you work with virtual doctors. The surgeon in St. Thomas looked at the photo, and deemed the reduction good enough for travel, so his arm was splinted up, and we were sent home. Given what he had to work with, that PA did an incredible job that day, and all things considered, we considered ourselves lucky that he was who got that day.

***

We were only at the clinic for about 4 hours total, but I was pretty sure that about 5 years had just been shaved off my life. But the rest of the story, is much easier to tell.

 ***

We went back to our rental house, and Carsten spent the remainder of the evening and all of the next day, just resting on the sofa and downing his pain meds.

We called this our Propaganda Photo. It was the one we emailed to everyone back home, to let them know that Carsten was doing pretty well after the whole ordeal.

Fortunately, the accident happened on a Thursday, and we were scheduled to fly home on Saturday, so it was just enough time for him to start feeling a little bit better before undertaking a full day of travel. He was feeling well enough even that we were able to go out to eat to a great little restaurant right near our house (Miss Lucy’s), and have a fabulous seaside send-off meal.

The food was delicious, the view was even better, and it was the first time any of us had ever had a goat join us at our table! Suzy, as we learned she was named, just wandered up to our table, walked underneath it, and stood there for a good 15 or 20 minutes, just enjoying the ocean view with us.

***

Once home, we met with an orthopedic surgeon – a real one, not a virtual one! and, one with about 30 years of experience! oh, frabjous day! – and after more x-rays, it was determined that Carsten would need surgery to better realign his radius, which was hooked, broken end to broken end, but only by a tiny margin.

The surgery was scheduled for the next morning. No more island time: things move quickly here!

As we waited in the pre-op room, on the Wednesday after he broke his arm, the anesthesiologist came in to talk to us. While asking us about how Carsten broke his arm, he began to insert Carsten’s IV, and this time, it was about a 15-second, one-stick procedure, and boom! It was all done. Amazing.

In a bizarre it’s-a-small-world kind of coincidence, the anesthesiologist told us that his father was a thoracic surgeon, who used to work for the U.S. Surgeon General. Many years ago, he had been sent to the U.S. Virgin Islands, with a mission to establish better health care there. Oh, the irony! The anesthesiologist told us his dad lived in St. Thomas for several years, and was able to make some progress as far as establishing transportation (ambulances), however, he became frustrated with the lack of resources available to him for making the kinds of improvements he really wanted to see, and eventually, he left. He remarked that he wished his father were still alive today to hear our story. Small world, indeed.

***

The surgery proved to be a bit more complicated than anticipated, and in the end, Carsten had to have a bone plate – a metal stabilizing device – implanted in his arm, and in spite of getting lots of good pain meds, he was still in a great deal of pain when he woke up. But you know how kids are, and it wasn’t long before he was feeling much better. And really, for the next several days, he was kind of living the dream: he got to skip three days of school, lie around on the sofa and watch lots of movies, while I catered to his every culinary desire. The only thing that could have been any better is if he’d been able to use his fingers on the broken arm better, so he could play video games.

He picked neon green (???) for his cast color, and has been carrying a Sharpie marker around in his pocket for collecting autographs.

The pain is nowhere near what it was, though he has some occasional aching, and some soreness at the incision site. We go back in a couple of weeks to have the cast removed and more x-rays taken, and to evaluate how well he is healing. He may be able to move to a velcro splint at that time, but we shall see. All things considered however, he’s doing pretty well, and life has returned to a much closer resemblance of the old normal.

***

We left St. John with a lot of great memories, though I suspect we won’t ever be able to think of it without thinking of the whole broken arm drama. And that’s ok, because already, I’m getting closer to being able to tell this story, as per the Three Sentence Theory. One day soon, with just a little more time and perspective on it all, I may just be able to say:

We went to St. John for Christmas. 

My son broke his arm while playing in the surf. 

But it all turned out ok. 

Yeah. One day.

 ***

 A few things we learned, and others we were reminded about, from our experience:

  • Next time we travel, we’ll probably definitely give consideration to the medical care available at our destination, especially if we’re traveling with our kids.
  • How overwhelmingly kind and helpful complete strangers can be. I’ll never forget those two kids from New York, or the doctor from California; or the guy who got us magazines and packing tape for a makeshift splint on the beach; and especially, the nurse at the clinic, who offered to stand in for me while Carsten’s arm was being manipulated back into place. Really….just so grateful.
  • For all its flaws, the medical care we have available to us right here in our own backyard is still immeasurably better than what exists in other places. We are, indeed, quite lucky.
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