Part 2: I think I just broke my hand
Dan had just started back to work after taking a few weeks off to help with the new arrival of our new baby. He was tired, I was tired, but there was nothing suspicious about the level of fatigue in our house. We were excited about the baby and enjoying the newness of it all while getting to know his little personality and establishing routines. Someone once told me that the birth of a baby brings many blessings into a home and family and I was certainly feeling them. We were eager to share him with everyone so we drove over to my parents house who lived about an hour away.
It was winter and there was snow everywhere. Sprout 1 helped grandpa shovel the walk while grandma bathed the baby. It was relaxing and we found it difficult to pack up and leave and make the long journey home. There was a strange calm before the storm.
We arrived home late that evening and began unloading a car full of bags, toys, kids and groceries. I took charge of the kids and started to get them settled while D brought in the last of the groceries.
Suddenly, I heard the door slam shut as he cursed in pain. “I think I just broke my hand!” Nobody breaks their hand opening a door, I thought. “Well, what happened? I’m sure it’s not broken–it can’t be,” I said trying to reassure a man who had never had a cavity let alone a broken bone. He obviously had no measure of pain and his tolerance was low.
In his rush to get the car unloaded, he slipped the weight of the grocery bags down to his two bottom right fingers so he could turn the door handle. He then pushed the door open without having to set anything down on the ground. I was sure it was a pulled muscle at best, but he insisted that he felt a pinch and a small snap around his ring finger. My sympathy was meager after a resume of two knee surgeries, a tonsillectomy and most recently, a painful stitch job after a cesarean. I didn’t trust his judgement and I had so many things to deal with let alone a sore hand that could be managed with some time and Advil.
“I’m sure it will feel better in the morning. Sometimes a pulled muscle can feel as painful as a broken bone.” I was tired and urged him to get some rest for work the next day.
Things between us had started to seem better since the arrival of the new baby. I began to feel closer to him. The previous few years had been rough on our marriage and left a distance between us, contention in our home, and a void of the happiness we felt in the beginning. Yet, we had always worked out our problems big or small and were determined to honor our commitments to each other and our children. I grew up in a broken home and knew that I never wanted that for me or my family. I had a deep love for him and as his wife, my basic existence was completely dedicated to making sure he was happy and that his life was the success I know he wanted.
Three days passed and his hand was still very sore and painful so we decided it was time to see someone. Our family doctor took an x-ray and confirmed the news that he had indeed broken his hand. He called me as he walked out of the office to say, “I told you so!” I was a little stunned. Ok, a lot stunned. Red flags were raised. How in the world could a bone be so fragile in such a healthy person? I felt bad. I had minimized the severity of the situation a few days earlier and my judgement was off.
He returned home that evening with a copy of the x-ray and a referral to an orthopedic surgeon. He was told that breaks in the hand sometimes require surgery and need to be properly set to heal and so we made the appointment for the next day. Stunned and exhausted, I resolved deal with the inconvenience of a broken hand and possible surgery, in addition to the baby, but nothing would prepare me for the forthcoming news.
