A Week To Forget

So, while I haven't posted in a long, long time (my previously published post is from November 7th, 2022, exactly three and a half years ago today), I have always enjoyed having this blog as a repository of events in my life. With that in mind, I return to catalogue one of the most emotionally exhausting weeks in my life, purely for posterity reasons. Strap in, this is going to be a long one. (Spoiler: All's well that ends well.) 

Last Friday, May 1st, I was home from work a little early. Claire was still running her DnD game for Ada and three of her friends, so I retired briefly to the bedroom to rest and relax before dinner. 

As usually happens once DnD is done, Ada and her fellow party members hang out and play games together. When it's a bit wet or cold out, that means multiplayer video games. Oh, Reader. How I wish this Mayday had been wet and cold. But it wasn't. It was glorious. Beautiful, clear blue skies, temperature in the mid 20°C. Outdoor time. 

Once the house was quiet again, I came out and settled in to watch some YouTube. The open windows meant I could hear all the kids having a great time in our courtyard area, shouting, laughing, racing about the place like kids should. 

After about ten minutes of this, Connor arrived in the front door, declaring loudly that he needed the washroom. Finding it occupied, he came over to see what I was watching. 

"Having fun outside with friends?"

"Yeah. Ada's crying." 

Now, I just want to mention here that my daughter is rather sensitive to friends being "mean". I don't mean bullying or being excessively aggressive. She can get upset if friends aren't playing the game the way she wants to play it, or if her little brother is being...well, a little brother. 

So, you'll forgive me when I tell you I didn't sprint out to the courtyard on hearing this update from Connor, so casually mentioned. I calmly put on my shoes, walked down the steps in front of our unit, and headed for the courtyard. As soon as I rounded the corner, I knew this wasn't just Ada being upset. 

Our neighbour was carrying Ada in his arms down toward me, and Ada wasn't crying. 

She. 

Was. 

Screaming. 

We sat Ada down on the low garden wall, and immediately she was shouting not to move or touch her left leg. She had soil from the garden on her head, all around her left eye, all over her right hand and on her pants legs. I tried to lift the leg of her pants on her left leg, as that was the only area I couldn't immediately inspect, but the slightest touch seemed to cause her pain to spike. 

What had she done to herself? Surely this was the result of some daredevil acrobatic foolishness of youth? Our gardens have plenty of trees to climb. Our housing blocks are three stories high, and we regularly see maintenance people on the tiled roofs. Did she climb out a first floor window and take a fall from there? If one of her friends had presented me with either of these scenarios, I honestly would have believed them. 

At this point, Claire was out of the washroom, and, rather than taking the time to question her here in the garden, we decided to get Ada up into our unit where we could look after her better. Claire and I tried to support her to walk the few meters to the door, resulting in much screaming. Our wonderful neighbour stepped in and once again scooped her up, carrying her up the stairs and all the way to the couch. Ada still screamed, but at least this way was quicker. 

With her leg immobilized as best we could and a cold pack applied, Ada was calm enough to explain what had happened. 

While playing with the DnD crew and a few other friends in our co-op, Ada saw a neighbour's cat out enjoying the sun as well. Her friends were elsewhere in the co-op, and she wanted to tell them. She started to run up through the back garden, but only made it a few meters. She tripped while running on a smooth, flat path and, apparently, landed very badly. 

Now that she was back home, we could clean the soil she had carried with her. Road rash on her forehead, wrist and elbow, but it was her knee that got the worst of it. Any attempt to move it caused Ada to scream. We left her to rest on the couch, moved our cat Shade to a better spot when his attempt to comfort her by lying on her legs was met with unexpected resistance, and let her watch videos on the iPad. 

We did not think we needed to take her to the hospital right away. I mean, how bad could it have been? No trees or first floor windows were involved in the telling of this tale. She slipped and fell on a path. A concrete path, yes. A concrete path that had been installed in the back garden area less than six months ago because the previous path, concrete slabs along a mostly grass walkway, was deemed a tripping hazard, sure. But still, just a trip. 

An hour later, the pain was just getting worse, and Ada was unable to take any painkillers we had on hand.  We made the decision to bring her to BC Women & Children's Hospital, just to get a professional opinion. Claire would drive over while I stayed home with Connor. BC Women & Children's is extremely highly regarded for its quality of care and quality of staff, and we are honestly blessed to live so close to it. 

But, we had to get there first, and that meant getting Ada back down the stairs to street level and the car. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, as well as demands to be let go home, because she didn't "want to be a problem for the doctors and nurses" with just her sore knee. But once on the sidewalk, she calmed down. I helped her gingerly into the passenger seat, kissed her and reassured her she was not going to be a problem for anyone, and kissed Claire, wishing her patience and a quiet ER. Then I waved them off and went back to get Connor ready for bed. 

By the time I was struggling to stay awake any longer, we knew that Ada had fractured her tibia and was to see an orthopaedic specialist. They added the possibility of a "small ACL tear" to the injuries. By midnight, they had x-rays to confirm the fracture. The orthopaedic specialist informed us it is a very common fracture in kids, especially during the summer as kids get outside and get more and more active. 

A CT scan was ordered for the morning to further inform what would be needed, and so, Claire and Ada's quick trip to the ER turned into an overnight stay. Ada's leg was immobilized in a big splint and she was given a room for the night. She finally managed to take some painkillers, and that and a mixture of anxiety and stress got her to sleep for a few hours, at least. Claire did not. 

Having crossed off "Get a CT Scan" on Ada's list of Things to Do Before You're 30, mum and daughter were home, weary and sore, just before noon on Saturday. Ada was going to need surgery. The hospital would be in touch on Monday to schedule a visit to the orthopaedic clinic and lay out the battle plan. In the meantime, she would not be able to go to school for the coming week, as she should not put any pressure whatsoever on her leg. Recovery time would be about six weeks. 

Thankfully, I had booked that Saturday off work, as we had gotten tickets to see the Vancouver Pops Symphony Orchestra play music that evening. Instead, I spent the day letting Claire catch up on sleep and caring for Ada, helping her learn how to get around with the help of her shiny new crutches and making sure she was as comfortable as I could manage.

I had work on Tuesday, but with Connor at school, Claire was free to take Ada to the orthopaedic appointment, back at Women's & Children's. At least there were no surprises to be had on this trip, we joked. Which was why when Claire sent me a photo of Ada with a cast on her right arm, covering everything from her palm to just below her shoulder, all I could muster was a resigned sigh. After speaking with the orthopaedic surgeon, he closed with the standard classic "Do you have any other concerns?" Usually this is practically a rhetorical question at that stage of the conversation, but Claire mentioned that Ada had a bit of a sore arm. The surgeon took a look at it, asked her to do a few motions, and immediately sent her for an x-ray, confirming the fracture at her elbow. No surgery needed on this one, but her dominant hand and arm was now out of service for at least three weeks. It also significantly increased the difficulty of using crutches. 

But before all that, the plan for Ada's leg was laid out for us, and that would start the following morning.

Claire dropped Ada and myself outside Women & Children's a little before noon on Wednesday. Probably suffering from not a small amount of PTSD at the sight of the building at this point in the week, she pulled up in the drop-off area, got us a wheelchair, and disappeared again. We headed to General Procedures and were brought straight to her room. Ada was extremely nervous, but every single member of staff was so kind and patient and understanding, and she was never pressured to do anything. We had a visit from our lovely surgeon, who again reassured us that this was as close to routine as a surgery can be, and the wonderful anesthesiologist, who demonstrated how the IV patch that needed to go on her back of Ada's hand would work, as well as several nurses, each making us feel safe and heard. 

Ada got changed into her gown, and they wheeled her bed down the corridor and into the surgery. She was still very stressed, and the anesthesiologist explained all about the Magic Glove, gently massaging Ada's hand and arm, getting Ada to contribute details of how the glove looked and felt and moved, and suddenly, without feeling anything, the IV patch was in her hand. They administered the sleepy medicine to Ada, and I watched as her eyes closed and her body relaxed. A nurse invited me to give her a kiss, and that was the moment I broke and tears started to wet the neckline of my t-shirt. 

I was lead back to the room we had started in to collect our things. I could leave most things in a secure locker near the waiting room, and I was encouraged to take a walk outside and get a coffee or some food, which I did. The procedure, I was told, would take about two hours, with about an hour more for recovery before she would start to come around. 

Almost exactly two hours later I was reading a book in the waiting area, when Ada's orthopaedic surgeon came in and sat beside me and told me that the surgery was a complete success. He showed me how the fracture on the tibia had the ligament attached, which was pulling the bit of bone up and away from the tibia and interfering with movement of the knee. The surgery had gone in, cleaned up the wound, and installed two pins. He showed me some x-rays of the pins in her knee, which looked enormous, and like they were sticking way out into the gap behind the knee plate, but he assured me that the x-rays made them look a lot more alarming than they really are, and they only appeared to be sticking out far beyond the bone because I can't see the cartilage that they are actually embedded flush within. 

A short while later a nurse came in asking for Ada's family, this time to take me to see her. Ada was just coming around and I arrived to find a dazed and confused and high-as-a-kite kid feeling very confused about who was in the room with her, and asking why they all looked like potatoes. When I said "Hi Ada", she looked at me and said "You look like a potato too, dad!" and proceeded to call me Potato for the next several hours. They had given her an ice lolly to enjoy, and she choose blue, because "the white one was boring and the black one was too dark". At one point she asked if I wanted a lick, and when I said "No thanks, you enjoy it. You deserve it" she looked at me seriously, and thrust the lolly towards me saying "What if I want you to have some!!" Hospital grade painkillers are a wonder. 

Pretty soon we were both on the move again, this time, to our final destination. We met the new nurses that would look after Ada in recovery, and her surgeon stopped by two or three times that evening to check in on everything. We also got to meet her physio team that would help with moving about, and give tips on how to proceed now that the crutch was an issue due to our recent broken arm discovery. And we met the pain management team, who were there to ensure that Ada was comfortable, pain free with not too much meds, nor too little. Just the Goldilocks of medication dosage. 

I ordered food before the kitchen closed, and Claire and Connor arrived soon after with snacks. All the beeping from the various machines hooked up to Ada started to make Connor nervous, and he started asking if Ada was going to be okay, and how we can stop the machines from making noise. Claire took him home, Ada and I settled in for the evening. 

We were woken almost every two hours throughout the night with check-ins. "Can you feel this?" "Push your foot against my hand.""Do you have any pain?""Have you peed yet?" But Ada was a trooper, never complaining, always ready to do so she was asked and then drift back to sleep. 

We were both awake very early Thursday morning, so I went out to hunt for some food. I found a coffee place that had waffles and grilled cheese sandwiches, so that was how we started our day. Thursday saw the same teams checking in several times throughout the day, with everyone impressed by Ada's recovery. As the day went on, each of the teams signed off on Ada going home, until she was officially discharged just before 6pm. 

Ada still has about six weeks of recovery time ahead of her. Over that time, the amount she is allowed to move her leg will slowly increase, but, for now, it's stationary, with strict orders not to put any pressure on it. She's hoping around home, using her one good arm to steady herself against anything she can reach on he way to wherever she needs to be (mostly couch, bed or toilet). 

Connor is being a superstar little brother, carrying stuff for her, or racing to bring her what she wants, from stuffy toys to freshly filled bottles of water. 

And Claire and I? We continue to be amazed by our daughter, so strong and capable and smart. Nervous when facing the unknown, sure, but once it's known and understood, nothing will stop her. Not a broken arm. Or a broken leg. Our even, a broken arm and leg at the same time.