The fact that we have made it nearly three years without a
major medical incident actually rather surprises me. Given the unwavering
rambunctiousness and absolute disregard for caution normally displayed by my perpetually
energized daughter, I generally feel that I am constantly wobbling on the precipice
of a trip to the emergency room. My fear
finally achieved fruition on a recent Friday evening when a two-and-a-half year
old found that she was no match for gravity or the principle of the fulcrum.
My daughter has
stopped taking naps. My wife and I believe that her stubbornness is outweighing
her need to sleep, as although she develops the zombie eyes of death every
afternoon, she absolutely refuses to nap. This has been made abundantly clear
to me by her pre-school teacher who consistently regales me with stories of how
my daughter, despite her obvious fatigue, tries her best to wake up her little
friends during nap time so they can go perform random acts of anarchy and
chaos. I have found that by Friday evening, after a full week of no napping,
trying to pick my daughter up from school without incident is akin to
attempting to put an angry Tasmanian Devil into a straight jacket. Therefore, I
try to prepare myself mentally before undertaking that task.
This particular
Friday evening pick up was going as I had anticipated: an absolute refusal to
cooperate accompanied by incomprehensible, guttural screams which I’m fairly
certain were curse words from some Germanic based language. After a few
minutes, she had calmed down to the point where we could walk toward the corner
of the classroom where her cubby-hole, containing her lunch box and her never
used cot linens, was located. I was holding her hand as we were walking (I have
to hold her hand when we are trying to leave because, if I don’t, she will turn
and run at warp speed out of her class, through the hallway and into a room
far, far away where she will hide under whatever furniture is present so she
can assert her desire to stay and play with her friends, even though they are
all going home as well, albeit with much less of a drama filled and catastrophic
process) and as we approached her cubby-hole to retrieve her belongings, she
decided to once again ignite a toddler temper tantrum by dramatically jumping,
performing a perfect plank in mid-air and flopping flat on the floor, all
whilst kicking and screaming. Unfortunately, because I was holding her hand
during that entire, split-second exhibition, her elbow became the hinge which was
swinging her entire mass. Toddler elbows, apparently, are not made to do that,
so they hyper-extend and induce a condition which I now know is called Nursemaid’s
Elbow.
She was actually
rather calm and quiet in the Urgent Care waiting room, which combined with the
fact that she was not moving her left arm, illustrated that there was indeed
something wrong. She passed the two hours we sat in that chamber of horrors by
making funny faces at the nurse behind the admissions desk and pointing at
random, injured people and whispering, “Look, they’re in the hospital too.”
After another hour having x-rays taken and being subjected to the prodding of a
rather nice, but totally befuddled medical practitioner, I have found evidence
that non-pediatric physicians really don’t know what to do with children other
than offer them lollipops and princess stickers in hopes that they will be
quiet and grow out of whatever is ailing them. This became inherently obvious
when the doctor said, “The X-Ray is normal, but her elbow is obviously in pain…I
don’t know what’s wrong with her. Here, have some princess stickers. I suggest
you take her to an orthopedist. I’ll call you to find out how she’s doing.” He
never called. Other than getting a cool, black arm sling to keep her immobilized,
we were no closer to being healed. I could have saved three hours and given her
some princess stickers myself, we have tons of them.
MY wife was just
as flabbergasted as I was at Western Medicine’s apparent ineffectiveness, so
she aired her disgruntled point of view with a brief synopsis of the night’s
event on Facebook (I am not at all savvy on the use of social media, so she
takes care of all that). Literally fifteen seconds later a good friend of mine
responded with, “Oh did you snatch her arm or something? It’s happened to my
kids, like, three times. It’s called Nursemaid’s Elbow. You’ll have to give it
a Mr. Miyagi.” As I vaguely remembered the Karate Kid reference, I texted him to
find out a little more info. “What is it?”
“Nursemaid’s Elbow. Look it up on YouTube. I fixed my kids’
elbows when the doctors didn't know what was wrong, sounds like the same thing.”
“Does it really work?”
“Yeah, it works. It’s going to HURT, but it’ll be fine right
after.”
Since Western
Medicine had failed me miserably, I saw nothing wrong with taking a totally
unqualified Chinese-American’s medical advice, which was based solely on
internet videos and a 1980s action movie. I watched the suggested video and
memorized the procedure. My wife had just given our daughter at bath and she
was now sitting on our bed whilst my wife attempted to get her into her
pajamas. I stealthily crept to the other side of the bed and approached
quietly, as not to rouse any suspicion from my daughter. I gave my wife, who
was aware of my plan, but in total disbelief, a nod to signal its commencement.
The game was now afoot. I crawled onto the bed and gently grasped my daughter’s
injured arm as my wife held her good arm away, and I began the procedure. A
slow movement here, then a total extension and flexion, and “POP”, everything
was back as it should have been. Good as new. The instant the arm popped back
into place, my daughter went off like an atomic bomb and screamed, “NAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
and began to pummel the daylights out of me with her newly functioning arm. Her
other arm, which my wife had recently released, quickly joined the fray and began
to batter my face with all of the vigor a two-and-a-half year old can muster.
The only reaction I could summon was hysterical laughter as I realized the
utter ridiculousness of the situation. My wife, apparently overcome by the
sight of her crazed daughter trying to murder her hysterical husband, muttered,
“I have to go…” and with mouth agape and eyes wide in disbelief at the insanity
that had unfolded before her turned and sauntered toward the stairs.
I hope the next time is much less awkward.
