The growth plate
Fri, 2016-07-29 05:00
News Staff
Renae Brumbaugh
- Green -
Coffee Talk
It’s that time again.
Time for sweat-soaked socks and stinky, standon- your-own gym shorts. Time for rolling down the car windows because you can’t breathe while locked in a small space with your malodorous mutant teenage boy.
It’s football time.
Which means, it’s also time for ace bandages and injuries.
Freshman camp, day one went pretty smoothly. New cleats? Check.
Grass stained athletic wear? Check.
Loud grunts from seventy-five boys, doing pushups while chanting, “Win State!”
Double check.
Day two seemed like more of the same, until the man-child piled his smelly long legs in the car, and I noticed he cradled one hand to his chest.
Me (in worriedmom voice): What’s wrong?
Him: It’s nothing.
Me: It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you’re in pain.
Him: Mom, it’s fine. I just fell on it.
Me: Did you tell the coach?
Him: No. It’s fine, Mom.
Me: (Long, worried stare.) All right.
The overprotective part of me wanted to get out of the car, find the coach, and ask what in the name of Kiwi-Lime-scented Febreze happened to my baby. But the logical part of me remembered I didn’t want my son labeled as a Mama’s boy on day two of practice. So I pretended to drop the subject and headed the car toward home.
When I put on my blinker to turn onto our road, man-child said, “Mom, I think we need to go to the doctor.”
Now, this is a kid who hates doctors.
Despises shots.
Loathes medicine, in any form.
I looked at him, trying very hard not to freak out. “It hurts that bad, huh?”
He nodded. “I think it’s broken.”
So I pulled over, dialed the doctor’s office, and told them we were on our way.
The rest of Tuesday was spent running here and there to appointments, getting x-rays, and debating whether or not he needed surgery.
His thumb is broken at the growth plate.
This is the same thumb that got broken at the same growth plate when he was in third grade.
“At least it’s his left hand,” the doctor said.
“He’s left-handed,” I told her.
“Oh.”
The one good thing that happened, if you can call it a good thing, is we got to the doctor right away. It was set with a splint as soon as possible, so the injury didn’t have time to re-fuse in the wrong position. Next week, he’ll get a hard cast, and we’ll keep praying everything grows back the way it’s supposed to.
I’m glad my son decided to ask for help, instead of toughing it out. If we’d waited another day, the bone might have started to heal in the wrong position, and we’d have had a much longer, more painful road ahead.
I haven’t always been so wise with my own injuries. Though I’m proud to say I’ve never broken a bone, I’ve done some pretty reckless things with my spirit. I’ve had my heart broken at the growth plate more than once. And sometimes, like my son, I want to say, “It’s fine.” I try to be tough, suck it up, and deal with the pain without going to the great Physician, who has the ability to set the splint and get everything back in alignment.
But when I try to handle things on my own, my injuries don’t always heal correctly. Infection seeps in, in the form of bitterness and anger, anxiety and depression. I’m so much better off if I go immediately to the Healer and say, “Ouch. It hurts. Please fix it.”
With any injury, healing takes time, and it’s not a pleasant process. But it’s certainly much quicker, and a lot more complete, when I let God oversee the treatment.
“Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and forget none of his benefits; who pardons all your iniquities, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with loving-kindness and compassion,” Psalm 103:2-4.