Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

“I think you’re rushing things-”

“It’s fine, really. She needs the activity. Even if she breaks again, a break after a few weeks of really great play is better for her body than just sitting around at home. And you don’t have to worry about the other kids hurting her, beyond the usual. We wrestle with her. We tickle her.”

“Yes, but you do all that at home ,” the teacher pointed out. “In a school environment…Well, it’s riskier.”

I stepped back, reading her loud and clear: we’re liable when she’s on our grounds . In spite of the Americans with Disabilities Act, I routinely read on online OI forums of private schools who kindly suggested that a healing child be kept at home, ostensibly for the child’s best interests but more likely because of their own rising insurance premiums. It created a catch-22: legally, you had clear grounds to sue for discrimination, but once you did, you could bet that, even if you won your case, your child would be treated differently when she returned.

“Riskier for whom ?” I said, my face growing hot. “I paid tuition to have my daughter here. Kate, you know damn well you can’t tell me she’s not welcome.”

“I’m happy to refund you tuition for the months she’s missed. And I would never tell you that Willow’s not welcome-we love her, and we’ve missed her. We just want to make sure she’s safe.” She shook her head. “Look at it from our point of view. Next year, when Willow’s in kindergarten, she’ll have a full-time aide. We don’t have that resource here.”

“Then I’ll be her aide. I’ll stay with her. Just let her”-my voice snapped like a twig-“let her feel like she’s normal.”

Kate looked up at me. “Do you think being the only child with a parent in the classroom is going to make her feel that way?”

Speechless- fuming -I strode down the hall to where Miss Sylvia was still waiting with you, watching you show off the cast’s Velcro straps. “We have to go,” I said, blinking back tears.

“But I want to play at the rice table…”

“You know what?” Kate said. “Miss Sylvia will get you your own bag to take home! Thanks for coming to say hello to all your friends, Willow.”

Confused, you turned to me. “Mommy? Why can’t I stay?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Miss Sylvia returned with a Ziploc full of purple rice grains. “Here you go, pumpkin.”

“Tell me this,” I said, eyeing each of the teachers in turn. “What good is a life if she doesn’t get to live it?”

I pushed you out of the school, still so angry that it took me a moment to realize you were deathly silent. When we reached the van, you had tears in your eyes. “It’s okay, Mom,” you said, with a resignation in your voice that no five-year-old ought to have. “I didn’t want to stay anyway.”

That was a lie; I knew how much you had been looking forward to seeing your friends.

“You know how, when there’s a rock in the water, the water just moves around the sides of it as if it’s not there?” you said. “That’s kind of how the other kids acted when you were talking to Miss Katie.”

How could those teachers-or those other kids-not see how easily you bruised? I kissed you on the forehead. “You and I,” I promised, “are going to have so much fun this afternoon, you aren’t going to know what hit you.” I leaned down to hoist you out of your wheelchair, but one of the Velcro straps on the cast popped open. “Shoot,” I muttered, and as I jostled you to one hip to fix it, you dropped your Ziploc bag.

“My rice!” you said, and you instinctively twisted in my arms to reach it, which is exactly the moment I heard the snap: like a branch breaking, like the first bite of an autumn apple.

“Willow?” I said, but I already knew: the whites of your eyes had flashed, blue as lightning, and you were slipping away from me into the sleepy trance that would overcome you when it was a particularly bad fracture.

By the time I settled you in the back of the van, your eyes were nearly closed. “Baby, tell me where it hurts,” I begged, but you didn’t answer. Starting at the wrist, I gently felt up your arm, trying to find the tender spot. I had just hit a divot beneath your shoulder when you whimpered. But you had broken bones in the arm before, and this one wasn’t stuck through the skin or twisted at a ninety-degree angle or any of the other hallmarks I associated with the kind of severe break that made you slip into a stupor. Had the bone pierced an organ?

I could have gone back into the school and asked them to call 911, but there was nothing an EMT could do for you that I didn’t know how to do myself. So I rummaged in the back of the van and found an old People magazine. Using it as an immobilizer, I wrapped an Ace bandage around your upper arm. I winged a prayer that you wouldn’t have to be casted-casts made bone density drop, and each place a cast ended was a new weak point for a future break. You could get away with a Wee Walker boot or an Aircast or a splint most of the time-except for hip fractures, and vertebrae, and femurs. Those breaks were the ones that made you go still and quiet, like now. Those breaks were the ones that had me driving straight to the ER, because I was too scared to handle them on my own.

At the hospital, I pulled into a handicapped spot and carried you into triage. “My daughter has osteogenesis imperfecta,” I told the nurse. “She’s broken her arm.”

The woman pursed her lips. “How about you do the diagnosis after you get a medical degree?”

“Trudy, is there a problem?” A doctor who looked too young to even be shaving was suddenly standing in front of us, peering down at you. “Did I hear you say OI?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think it’s her humerus.”

“I’ll take care of this one,” the doctor said. “I’m Dr. Dewitt. Do you want to put her in a wheelchair-”

“We’re good,” I said, and I hoisted you higher in my arms. As he led us down the hall to Radiology, I gave him your medical history. He stopped me only once-to sweet-talk the technician into giving up a room quickly. “Okay,” the doctor said, leaning over you on the X-ray table, his hand on your forearm. “I’m just going to move this the tiniest bit…”

“No,” I said, stepping forward. “You can move the machine, can’t you?”

“Well,” Dr. Dewitt said, nonplussed. “We don’t usually.”

“But you can ?”

He looked at me again and then made adjustments to the equipment, draping the heavy lead vest over your chest. I moved to the rear of the room so the film could be taken. “Good job, Willow. Now just one more of your lower arm,” the doctor said.

“No,” I said.

The doctor looked up, exasperated. “With all due respect, Mrs. O’Keefe, I really need to do my job.”

But I was doing mine, too. When you broke, I tried to limit the number of X-rays that were done; sometimes I had them skipped altogether if they weren’t going to change the outcome of the treatment. “We already know she’s got a break,” I reasoned. “Do you think it’s displaced?”

The doctor’s eyes widened as I spoke his own language to him. “No.”

“Then you don’t really have to X-ray the tibia and fibula, do you?”

“Well,” Dr. Dewitt admitted. “That depends.”

“Do you have any idea how many X-rays my daughter will have to get in the course of her lifetime?” I asked.

He folded his arms. “You win. We really don’t need to X-ray the lower arm.”

While we waited for the film to develop, I rubbed your back. Slowly, you were returning from wherever it was that you went when you had a break. You were fidgeting more, whimpering. Shivering, which only made you hurt more.