Last Night I Called 911

Published on Saturday, August 21, 2010 by Katherine

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The drive last night to Corolla was a long one.  My tire light came on, dinner took 45 minutes and I had to stop and get gas.  But at 10:00 we were finally pulling in to the driveway of the beach house.

With our usual excitement, we opened the doors and took in the distinct smell of the salty ocean air. My 17 year old carried the cooler upstairs while I opened the back of the car.  Within two minutes of our arrival, my daughter and her friend raced to me yelling, “David broke his ankle!  Come quick!”

I looked around the car and saw my son on the ground.  That kid is tough.  Silent with a bit of sarcastic laughter.  I could tell it was bad.

Think back to your childhood.  Remember grabbing the rails of the stairway and flipping your body up and over about 6 sets of stairs?  David has always done this successfully.  Until last night.  When he failed.

I couldn’t get him up and he certainly couldn’t walk.  There is always that moment before you call 911 when you say to yourself, “Do I really need to do that?  Is it necessary?”  I deemed it necessary because it was either that or make the poor kid sleep in the sand writhing in pain.  I would call that a no brainer.

Fifteen minutes later the amazing Currituck Rescue Squad arrives, including a man that could have been a rival for Hulk Hogan.  My GREAT thanks to this amazing EMS team.  THANK YOU!

I have to tell on myself here.  He began to ask David questions and for the first three I answered for my son.  I know I know, but my kid was hurt and I had to call 911 for heaven’s sake!  I finally “got it” and let David answer so they could keep his mind off the pain and gage his physical and mental state.  Nobody’s perfect!

They splinted his foot and helped me get him in the back seat, elevating his leg on a lowered seat in front.  Just down by Mile Post 14, they said.  The emergency room.  Do you know where it is?

I had already been driving for two hours.  I had been up since 5 a.m. and had worked a full day.  But off we went.  Every turn, every bump I heard quiet mumbles through gritted teeth.  David did that too!  But we finally arrived near midnight.  I got him a wheelchair and the process began.

One hundred and fifty dollars later, we pulled in once again to the beach house driveway.  Only this time we unpacked with an air splint, crutches and Percocet.  And a whole lot of swollen foot.

My son had dislocated his ankle, tearing a ligament to top it all off.   The ER staff explained this is often more painful than a broken bone in the ankle.  On Monday, the poor kid will be hobbling along the corridors with his crutches on his first day of school.  And this weekend?  He didn’t even get to try out his new birthday flippers for body boarding.  Dang.