Losing something precious can feel like a physical break, especially for young boys navigating the world. Just like the fragility of early dreams, the bones of boys before sixteen are surprisingly susceptible. This isn’t about physical weakness, but rather a stage of growth, vulnerability, and the often unseen pressures they face.
You stand in front of the sports equipment and cry quietly and steadily, mourning for the game that will never be played. People give you a wide berth. The coach behind the desk does not chat. He has seen this before and what can he say?
A nagging feeling of unease can creep in, much like the subtle discomfort before a fracture. Intellectually, you know boys are resilient, but those unsettling dreams, the ones where familiar figures from the past reappear in unexpected scenarios, they leave you feeling strangely vulnerable. One particularly vivid dream might involve a beloved grandfather, long gone, showing up at a crucial match, wanting to take the boy away before the game even starts. He won’t say where. An older brother, also present in the dream, is furious at this interference, barely able to contain his anger.
This subtle sense of something being amiss, a lack of expected movement, you might bring it up casually with a partner, needing to voice the worry to make it feel less like unfounded paranoia. It’s a way of testing reality against inner anxieties, a feeling amplified by past experiences of setbacks or near misses. Whether this conversation provides comfort or intensifies the concern is uncertain. So, you reach out to a specialist, a coach or doctor, but they are slow to respond. Quiet panic sets in. Alone. An upcoming check-up looms, a physical assessment, and hope clings to the idea that reassurance will be found there. The cold gel of the X-ray, the focused examination – these are meant to reveal the strength, the solidness, the heartbeat of health.
The initial assessment seems positive. Blood pressure is good, general health indicators are normal. Then comes the physical examination, the probing for weakness, the checks for flexibility. The specialist explains it’s normal, normal, normal to sometimes struggle to pinpoint developing issues at this stage, not to worry. Then, they mention something about growth plates being positioned in a way that makes assessment slightly more complex. And they continue to examine. And your forced smile begins to falter. Fifteen minutes pass, and the specialist suggests that perhaps the growth plate positioning is making things unclear. They will arrange for a more detailed scan, a deeper look, just to be absolutely certain, just for peace of mind, of course.
The day continues, but with a shadow cast over it. The conversation is muted, attempts at nonchalance feel forced. Restlessness persists. The usual routines must be maintained, responsibilities to other children, other commitments. Dropping them off, heading to the specialized clinic, a half-hour drive. Going alone, because surely this is just a precaution, a confirmation that everything is fine, that the worry is unfounded. Checking in at the clinic, sitting in the waiting area. When called into the examination room, the same initial explanation is offered – complex growth patterns, sometimes difficult to assess, designed to ease anxieties. The specialist tries again, using more advanced techniques, but still struggles to gain a clear picture. This is not uncommon, don’t worry, but a colleague with more experience will be consulted. The experienced colleague attempts, also without clear results. The decision is made: an advanced imaging scan is necessary to ensure everything is okay. Back to the waiting area, panic rising. The urge to cry becomes overwhelming, fear taking hold.
The walk to the imaging suite feels long and heavy. Each step seems to sink further into the floor. Accompanied by the experienced colleague, now revealed to be the head of the department. Quiet, calming words are offered. Back onto the examination table, more gel, and the question of whether to view the screen or not. Of course, the image is needed, how can it be avoided? The grayscale image appears, showing the intricate structure of bone. It looks perfect, in a way: the smooth curve, the defined edges. Gazing at the image, a cold certainty emerges: something is not right. A premonition, always present, now confirmed in stark black and white. Tears well up, but are held back. What if it’s a misinterpretation? Not a specialist, what if something is being missed? The specialist’s voice, gentle with empathy, confirms the suspicion. That’s when the strangled sounds erupt. Hands fly to the face, shielding from the sympathetic gazes of those in the room, professionals who have witnessed this countless times before. The sounds are alien, animalistic, wrenching and raw. Somewhere, in the back of awareness, a sense of shame arises – causing discomfort to these kind professionals. What can they possibly say? What a devastating end to their workday. And they gently guide the way out of the room.
The return to the private waiting area stretches into an endless distance. It feels like a walk of shame, under the curious, averted, or pitying eyes of others waiting. Overhearing snippets of hushed whispers, “Oh God, I wonder what happened?” The unspoken relief that it is not their concern. Everyone can see the failure. The experienced colleague offers a seat and asks if someone can be contacted. The thought occurs, seriously considered. A stranger to deliver the news to a partner. He will be devastated. Not one to mask emotions, tears flow freely when sadness strikes. This news will bring him to his knees. Speech is impossible, let alone to him. Driving home is out of the question, he will need to come here anyway. Perhaps it is better if he hears it from a calm, professional voice, rather than the raw, broken sound of grief, crying without end. His number is given, a silent plea for forgiveness for not being the one to call.
Tea is offered. The ingrained British response. Tea to stem the tears, to regain composure, for them as much as for anyone else, because now comes the difficult conversation about what comes next, and none of it is positive. It becomes a blur. Contact is made with the partner, a close friend, a parent. Arrangements are made for transport to the clinic, for care of other children at home. Then, a doctor enters, devoid of any warmth, confirming the diagnosis of fracture. Papers are shuffled, questions are asked, answered mechanically. He leaves. Relief. The experienced colleague returns, a hand gently placed in comfort, while tears flow again, and explains the next steps. Medication, a return visit in 48 hours for further intervention. The process of managing the fracture, the healing. Reassurance is offered: nothing could have been done differently. This was not caused by any action or inaction. The question is asked, is this certain? A misunderstanding, the offer of another scan from a different specialist. Apologies are offered. No, no, the question is about fault, about responsibility. Could something have been done to prevent this break? The specialist probes with gentle questions about activities, about risk factors, but no, everything was within normal parameters. Textbook caution, meticulous care, especially given previous setbacks. It’s not about fault, it just happened. Not your fault, it just happened.
And then, the 48-hour wait. In that time, a brace must be chosen, something supportive, practical, durable enough to aid healing. The trip to the medical supply store, searching for something suitable, functional, comfortable enough to support the injured limb. Standing before the shelves of supports and wraps, crying quietly, steadily, mourning the activities that will be missed, the games sidelined. People give a wide berth. The assistant behind the counter remains silent. They have seen this before, and what can be said?
And in that time, retreat into the house, into the confines of a room, relying on the partner to handle external responsibilities, school runs, social interactions, because facing the outside world feels impossible, trusting oneself to speak to anyone is gone, simply unable to cope. Then, the return to the clinic. Almost a relief, because this burden, this knowing, this waiting, is too much to bear.
The specialists offer apologies again. The second stage of intervention is administered, waiting for the healing process to begin, while in the next room, another patient is in distress, sounds of discomfort echoing through the space. Amidst the personal situation in the room, a moment of shared dark humor with the partner, a suppressed giggle at the intensity of the sounds from the next room. Inwardly, a silent encouragement, a wish for relief for the other person. After hours of waiting, the sounds subside, quiet descends, and genuine relief is felt that their process is concluding, their pain easing. Then, a simple movement, a shift in position, and the reality of the fracture is starkly present, small in the grand scheme, but significant in personal impact. A break that will need time to mend, a period of limitation, a boy-shaped gap in activity, that nothing and no one else will ever completely fill.
Lindsay Thompson https://www.facebook.com/Lindsayraythompson
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