What Can Possibly Go Wrong - Weston, MA

What actually went wrong - complete with the floor that caused it

So when I named this blog, I was laughing about the title of an article about allowing concealed firearms into schools--
what could possibly go wrong? It was just so obviously over-the-top ironic. And I thought that it would be a great title for a blog about moving back home after years away in Brazil--like, I know this place, what could possibly go wrong?

And what I've learned is that one should never ever tempt fate. When something went wrong, we were only two hours home in our new house in Weston, MA, after an overnight flight, a connecting flight complete with a TSA run-in (no, nothing with concealed firearms but rather a forgotten filled water bottle--I almost went to jail over it, but that's another story), and a lost car in a Boston Logan Airport parking lot.

The house is nearly empty--our shipment is not expected for another month, if lucky. We have a few pieces of furniture I bought from the former owner, but mostly we're camping on top of lovely polished hardwood floors. I had just put on a dance playlist and the kids were sliding around on socks and playing capoeira. I was in the dining room unpacking when I heard a crash, and ran in to find Nico literally screaming in pain and holding his arm. 

Now I have a kid with high pain resistance, and one with low. Nico is low. We comforted him and shushed him, and put him on the couch to rest. We knew he was hurt but we thought he was perhaps overreacting because he was tired from the trip. Sure enough, he fell asleep on the couch soon after. About an hour later, he woke up in pain unable to move his arm--his elbow had swollen to twice the size of the other.  And so we debated: I had already set a well visit with a local pediatrician the next morning at 8 am so the kids would be approved for summer camp participation. Should we wait or should we take him in to the emergency room? 

We have emergency care coverage from our Brazil insurance but doctor visits are not covered right now. I called the local pediatrician whom I had never met to see if we could bring Nico in. We live approximately 7 minutes from the office and they were able to squeeze him in to see a doctor there. I will love forever the Weston Pediatric Group for their care of Nico and immediate action.

We were there in minutes, my dad had come along for a quick trip to the grocery store. No one could believe that this would be more than a bruise, at worst a dislocation. Then the bad news: the doctor told us that without an x-ray, it would be impossible to tell the damage. We were told to go to Boston Children's Hospital, possibly the best children's hospital in the land--there we would find pediatric orthopedic surgeons on call and if there was a worst case scenario, surgery would be at the same location.

We dropped my dad off back at home, and then BH and I (For those who don't know us from the last blog I call my Brazilian husband "BH" for security reasons. No, for privacy reasons. No, because I can) were off to Boston in 5:30 pm traffic with Nico. At this point, Nico seemed to be a bit better and was chatting non-stop--but it took us an hour to get to the emergency room. 

While there were not many kids in the waiting room, we were received quickly but waited almost an hour to get the x-ray done. The staff at the hospital were great and friendly and chatty with Nico. The news finally came back: the arm was fractured right above the elbow and slightly dislocated. The seemingly-teenaged orthopedic resident said that surgery would be necessary. It seemed likely that the surgery would not be until the next day (it was then 9 pm) but until that was decided, Nico was not allowed to eat or drink. He cried.

An hour later we found out that the surgery would be the next morning or early afternoon (there were six kids scheduled ahead of Nico). We got some food and drink into my son and BH volunteered (oh, all right, I didn't fight too much) to stay the night on the couch in his shared room. But before I left, it was time to put the IV into Nico. And that is when we brought down the house.

Oh yes, Nico hates needles. HATES. He also has a very loud voice. He screamed and screamed. Before the needle went in. Because when the actual needle went in after the numbing "bomb", he didn't even notice.  And he got an Air Force metal jet toy as a reward--perhaps subtly reminding us that his screams had broken the sound barrier. Shell-shocked, I drove home alone from the hospital at midnight.

I guess this has gotten more detailed than I had meant so I shall move swiftly onwards. Nico had his surgery at 9 am and was able to choose his cast color (camouflage) and will be in a cast for three weeks at least with three pins in his bone (I have elected not to tell him of the needles sticking out of his arm under the cast). So much for the summer plans of soccer and tennis camps and afternoons at the town pool.  The part I find most ironic? I am a crazy mom on kids in helmets on bicycles, on pony rides, careful on tree climbing, skiing, etc. My kid went down in the family room. 

Home we are. Nico is fine, in a low level of pain and learning to eat and draw with his left hand. His twin brother who suffered with Nico's absence (he slept in my bed during the one-night hospital stay) helps him carry the heavy cast, and puts food on his fork. We'll be fine, though this homecoming was not exactly how I planned. What is, really? 

What can possibly go wrong, indeed.