Not a rest break, not by any stretch of the imagination.
I didn’t write on Friday because . . . well because of Thursday. Like most times when things are going crazy they only get crazier. More than a week ago, while on a shoot in San Francisco that Sam was having a headache. Rarely he has a major one that can get to the point where he cannot function. This, of course, as I’m in the middle of the Presidio, with traffic and all, nearly three hours away. I used every name in my contact list and then got the poor little guy picked up.
Then came Thursday. Sam fell off the monkey bars, something that’s normal for him. This happened during recess at the school, right around 11am. I got a call – from Sam – around 4:30 in the afternoon. I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t think it was that awful.
“It hurts up to my shoulder when I bend it the wrong way,” he told me on the phone. I made for the light rail station and got home to pick him up. When I got home he said he was fine.
Then Friday morning . . . On his way out of the car trying to get to school he slipped and braced himself with his dominant hand – his left hand – and it gave way. He fell and hit his knee on the ground. That’s when he broke down. I went home with him, calling the doctor on the way. I got him in and with luck the doctor was in the waiting room on the way out . . . she spotted us and looked at his arm.
“Oh, that’s broken,” she said, fairly confident in just looking at it.
So then came today. It’s Monday, I’m writing in the morning this time. Fractured in two places. A “buckle fracture” she says. A very weak spot now with the break. Luckily he cared for it over the weekend and got his cast on now.
But here’s the funny part: Sam could care less about the pain. My oldest, Abbi, told him how brave he was. But the key for Sam? We showed up at school to pick up the other kids . . . and he stood, ahead of me, hoping to be just out of ear shot, as the 7th and 8th grade came out. Every pretty girl that walked up he proudly exclaimed upon their interrogative “I broke a bone. Yep. Monkey bars.”
Battle scars. Badges of honor. That was how he was treating this. Nothing sexier than a cast and a scar, I suppose. Even to a nine-year-old boy.
God help me, this is how he acts today. I can only imagine when he turns 13 . . . 15. . . 16. Then I’ll be asking “give me a break” for far different reasons.