My 9-year-old daughter broke her left arm on Saturday morning.
Whenever something awful happens to one of my children, I do not take pictures. I do not journal. Later, when they're all better, when the event has evolved into a great story, when perspective and optimism have been restored, I wish I had something other than my panic-filled memories to help me document the experience. I'm not even close to that point, however.
I'm not ready to tell the story until I know her arm's going to be alright, and that won't be for another week when the orthopedic surgeon checks her again, when the swelling has gone down, when the arm is ready to go into a hard cast. I may not even be ready to tell the story for a couple of months, after the hard cast comes off and the physical therapy is complete. Actually, I don't know if I ever want to talk about it.
My husband snapped a picture on the ER doctor's cell phone right before my daughter went into surgery. That's all I can stand for now.
Dinner last night: spaghetti and meatballs