What I Learned Taking Two Boys to the Hospital

When Sam was in fifth grade, he went on a field trip to a ski resort. He was not a very experienced skier, but I knew he would be well-supervised.

When he came home that afternoon, I asked him how his ski trip had been.

“Good,” he said, “It was cool.” Then he held out his left arm, and I saw a small piece of white gauze draped loosely on his wrist.

“I fell,” he said, when I asked him what had happened.

“Does it hurt? Did someone look at it?”

“It doesn't hurt much,” Sam said.

I’m no medical expert, and it looked fine to me. I told him to let me know if the pain continued or increased.

The next day Sam said his arm still hurt. He said it the same way he had before, very casually. It was Friday, and our family doctor’s office was closed. I certainly didn't want to take him to the emergency room.

I had a thought. “Hey, Sam,” I said, “I have an appointment with the doctor on Tuesday for the baby. If your arm still hurts, I’ll take you in then.”

He said. “Okay,” and I thought that was the end of it.

So I was surprised when, on Tuesday morning, Sam asked what time we were going to the doctor.

“It still hurts?” I asked, and when he nodded, I said, “The appointment is at 10:30.”

So I went to the doctor’s office with my oldest child and my youngest child. After the doctor examined Adam, I asked him to take a look at Sam’s arm. I was a little embarrassed to ask him, since the appointment was for Adam, and I had a suspicion that Sam was just looking for an excuse to miss school.

The doctor told me that I should take Sam’s to the hospital for an X-ray, something  I hadn't unexpected to hear. I loaded Sam and Adam back into the van and drove to the hospital.

A technician X-rayed Sam’s arm and we waited in the emergency room lobby for the results. After a while, a man in hospital scrubs came and called Sam’s  name. I stood up and pointed at Sam, and the man came closer.

"This is Sam?"

“

Sam and I both nodded.

“When did you hurt your arm?” the man asked.

When we told him it had happened on Thursday, the man shook his head in disbelief. “This is one tough kid,” he said. “His arm is broken in three places. You need to get a cast on it right away.”

A terrible wave of maternal guilt swept over me. Five days! I had sent my child to school and to church; I had made him do his homework and his chores, and all the time he had a broken arm. I turned to him with tears in my eyes and an apology on my tongue, but before I could say a word, he spoke up. “Cool! I broke my arm!”

He choose a green cast, since he would have it on for St. Patrick’s  Day, and everyone at school signed it. It was the best six weeks he’d had in a long time.

*    *    *    *    *    *

Ten years later:

When Ben said he was feeling sick, Wes and I wondered if he had eaten something bad. He was a very strong and healthy 15-year-old and had almost never been ill.

But the next the day he felt worse, and was feeling some abdominal  pain. I called a neighbor and asked if she could give us a ride to Instacare. The doctor at Instacare examined Ben briefly, then told us to go straight to the hospital’s emergency room. There they confirmed that Ben had appendicitis.

The staff gave Ben IV medication for his pain and began to prepare him for surgery. Wes arrived and we waited while our son’s appendix was removed.

After the surgery Ben was sleepy and confused, but the surgeon said things had gone well. We stayed with him until he was more coherent, but it was getting late and our other children were home alone. Wes told Ben that we would be back in the morning.

“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m going to stay.”

Wes was surprised. “You want to stay here all night?” He knows I don’t like hospitals. And we both knew that I wouldn't get any sleep if I was there.

“I’m going to stay. I don’t want Ben to be alone.”

“He’ll be fine. They’ll take care of him. He’s fifteen.”

I shrugged. I just felt like I wanted to stay.

“Let’s ask Ben,” Wes said, and asked Ben if he wanted me to stayed there with him. He said he didn't care.

I felt I should stay, and I did. Ben slept most of the night, and when he stirred a couple of times he seemed groggy and hardly aware of my presence. In the morning, Ben was released and Wes came and took us both home. Ben recovered quickly, and I basically put the whole thing out of my mind.

Many months later, I became seriously ill and was hospitalized. When I became more stable, Wes brought the five children who were living at home to visit me. During the visit, Wes asked each child to say something nice about me.

I’m  sorry to admit that I don’t remember what any of them said – except for Ben, who said, “When I had my appendix out,  she stayed the whole night with me.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

Thinking about these two experiences has taught me a lesson about being a parent: we don’t always judge things perfectly. We don’t always know what to do. But when we do our best, and follow our hearts, things usually work out – sometimes better than we may have expected. We often don’t see the results of our decisions right away – it may take days, or weeks, or years. But we just have to keep going, hoping, and believing.

Now that I've written this, I realize that the lesson is not just about parenting. It’s about life. It's about Grace.

The scriptures tell us that “it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do,” and that "the Lord's grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness."

I learned a few songs in Spanish in college. For some reason, the only one I remember well is the Mexican folk song "La Bamba," perhaps best known as a 1958 Richie Valens hit. 

This is the part of the song I like most:

Para bailar La Bamba
Se necessita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia para mi, para ti.

Here's the rough translation:

To dance La Bamba
A little grace is needed,
A little grace for you and for me.


I don't think this song was meant to be a sermon or a lecture on faith. Most of the lyrics are a bit silly, actually (I'm not a sailor!  I'm the Captain!). But I have learned to believe that in order to figuratively "dance La Bamba" – to get through life reasonably well – a little Grace is needed. For you and for me.

Bamba, Bamba, Bamba, Bamba, Bamba, Bamba, Bamba!