By Staff
I had an unexpected vacation last week. Well, parts of it were a vacation.
Something I had expected during the years my children were growing up finally happened – many years later.
I got that dreaded evening call, "Your son has been in a serious accident."
My middle son, of course, Clay, who I called the poison control center on three times in one week when he was 4 years old.
Now 34, his self-called middle life crisis consisted of returning to his love of dirt bikes.
Back when he was growing up with five acres to roam in Dowagiac, he built himself trails complete with jumps.
Surprisingly, he failed to hurt himself through those years.
He was excited to live so close to Red Bud Trail in Buchanan, which his friends in Minnesota even know about.
Though he never competed, he loved to ride and jump.
Now, new bike, 10 minutes in, he overshot a jump and apparently came down on the bike, which then flipped on top of him.
Though he doesn't remember what happened, he said it was the most fun 10 minutes he had before the crash.
His biking friends quickly tried to get his boots and pants off before the paramedics came with their scissors, as they did with his riding shirt.
All new equipment, his helmet was cracked, but protected his head and the mouthpiece saved a $4,000 set of teeth I paid for. The chest protector also was cracked and both pieces probably saved his life.
He ended up with a cracked rib, broken vertebra in his back and a broken knee.
It could have been a lot worse.
After knee surgery he was ordered not put any weight on his knee – for 10 weeks.
I drove through a late March snowstorm to St. Paul to help out while his wife was at work.
I wanted so bad to hug him – then kick his butt for getting hurt, scaring all of us and now being unable to work.
At the hospital, I walked in thinking how terrible he looked, until I realized I was looking at a different man. He had broken 22 bones in a skiing accident.
My son was in a different bed, thankfully looking much better.
I quickly learned of his frustration of constant conflicting orders.
One nurse wanted to put heat on his knee, when it needed ice.
The shot he got twice a day, to prevent clots, we learned the nurses didn't even know how to administer.
When he asked if he would need to do them at home, he was told no way, but then sent home with two months of shots.
Pressing his call button, he often waited a half an hour for someone to come. He couldn't stay ahead of the pain.
He was supposed to be using this machine up to eight hours a day to keep scar tissue from forming around the injured part of his knee, but they didn't help him to do so.
Now he is a strong advocate that everyone in the hospital needs someone there to make sure the patient is getting the proper care.
One male nurse when checking him out, even threw the large bag of his medicines onto the bed, striking the knee which had just had plates and screws put in.
Strangely on double checking the medicines to his list, the oxycontin was missing from the bag.
Glad to be home under his mom's care – and being able to shower and shave, he felt lots better and began his routine of keeping his knee limber.
Within a day or so he was even doing the stairs.
His pain meds had dropped considerably.
In between running up and down the stairs with water and food, clean clothes and to just visit, it was a good chance to reconnect with my granddaughter, now a full-day kindergartner. I am not even complaining I came home with the stomach flu, thanks to her.
I also got the opportunity to visit an aunt who, at 93, is doing great in an assisted living facility in Wisconsin.
While he was in pain, my daughter actually was needing me back here, as she was in extreme pain and found out she is going to need an operation due to gallstones.
No matter how old your kids are, you still feel their pain. I plan on being by her side, too.
She can be e-mailed at: marcia.steffens@leaderpub.com.