The morning sunlight streamed through the crack at the side of the curtain, and I blinked my eyes awake. As I sat up in bed, pain shot through my right arm. Even wrapped in a cloth bandage, my right arm throbbed from when I fell off the monkey bars the day before, on the playground at the boarding school for missionary kids in Nigeria. I scooted to the edge of my lower bunk in the dormitory and slid my feet into slippers.

My roommate helped me take off my jammies and pull my Sunday dress on over my head. But my wrist ached from the slightest movement. I blinked away tears. Will it ever stop hurting? Why did I listen to my friend when he told me to spit on my hands for better grip?

Just then, the bell rang for breakfast and we walked to the dining hall where I found my place at the table. I didn’t eat much of the porridge.

In church, I sat in a row with other second-grade girls and tried to sing the hymn. Cradling my aching arm against my chest, I prayed. Please, God. Can you make the pain go away?

At lunch, I picked up my fork with my left hand instead of my normal right hand. The peas rolled off. When I lifted my right thumb to push them on, a zing of pain shot through that arm. I pushed my plate away as tears streamed down my cheeks.

On the walk back to the dorm, the tallest, strongest girl in my grade, who was also named Debbie, skipped up beside me. “How are you going to do your schoolwork? You can’t write with that big bandage on.”

“I don’t know,” I said softly.

“How do you feel now? Tell me if this hurts you.” She raised her hand high as if to hit my arm. But she dropped it to her side.

I flinched. “Don’t do that!”

“You should see the look on your face!” The rowdy red-head threw her head back and  laughed in triumph.

“Hmph. Well, maybe I won’t have to do any writing this week. And I’ll laugh while watching you work hard in class.”

During the afternoon rest hour, I lay on the bottom bunk and rolled to face the wall. In that private corner I sucked my thumb in secret, like I always did when I was lonely, sad or scared. It comforted me and calmed the butterflies flitting about in my tummy. I have to hide my bad habit because I’m seven years old, and I don’t want the nurse to paint my thumb with that bitter, brown medicine again.

But even sucking my thumb caused a shooting pain up that arm. I lay there wide awake, and it throbbed worse every minute. Finally, when the hall monitor, a tall junior high girl, walked by on her rounds, I called out. “I need help!”

Will My Arm Fall Off?

She stopped in the doorway. “Shhhh,” she said. “You know you’re not supposed to talk. What’s wrong?”

“Can you please get me some aspirin?

She glanced up the hall, then back at me. “All the staff are taking rest hour now.”

“But can you help me? I hurt so badly.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then leaned on the doorframe and lowered her voice even more. “I’m really sorry. But I just can’t wake anybody up or we’ll all get into trouble.”

I pressed my face into my pillow and my tears soaked the pillowcase. Nobody can help me. How will I make it through rest time?

Finally, the long rest hour ended. I slipped my feet into my sneakers and hurried to the nurse’s office with a salty trail of tears on each cheek. With my good hand, I wiped my face and stepped through the door.

“My arm hurts so bad I couldn’t sleep.” I sniffed the tears back.

“Let me take a look.”

As she quickly unwrapped the ace bandage, my whole body stiffened like a pole. “Ow! That hurts.” I wish my mommy were here. She’d hold me in her lap and make me feel better.

“I know it hurts, Debbie. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

The nurse opened a cupboard door and took out a flat metal splint. “Maybe your wrist is broken. I’ll wrap it in this splint which will hold it tightly and help you feel better.” She patted my shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll send you to Bingham Hospital in Jos. The doctor will probably put a cast on your arm.”

My heart started pounding. What does she mean by, “It’s broken”? When my dolly broke her arm, it fell off, and Mom had to tape it back on.

I held my arm close to my chest. I sure hope this doesn’t fall off.

To the Hospital

After breakfast on Monday morning, I climbed into the school van and sat next to a lady I didn’t recognize. The driver said, “We’ll get you to the hospital, Debbie. I’ll try to take it easy on the potholes in the dirt road.” He chuckled. “But there are a lot of them!”

I nodded. Leaning my head back on the seat, I closed my eyes. I pictured my doll lying on the ground at home, her arm at an odd angle.

I turned and looked out the window. One of Mommy’s china bowls broke into lots of pieces. I wonder if my arm really is broken. What will happen to me at the hospital?

After we passed the volcanoes and then Camel Rock, my stomach started churning with carsickness. Every rut in the washboard road jolted my body and made my tummy feel worse.

I turned to the lady. “How long until we get there? I think I might throw up.”

“We’re about halfway there, only thirty minutes left. We can stop the van if you need to.”

Finally, we arrived at the town and soon the tires were crunching to a stop in the gravel driveway of a long, white, single-story building. The lady passenger took my good hand, helped me climb out of the van and walk up the steps. As she pushed open the screen door, I caught a big whiff of the familiar, sharp, medicine-y smell of a hospital.

Once inside, I stood still, and my eyes wandered around the waiting room. The benches along three walls were crowded with lots of frowning people. This is where I first saw my sister when she was born in April. My eyes filled with fresh tears. I wish Mommy were here with me now. She’d hug me in her arms and comfort me the way she held Cindy.

A tall nurse stood behind the desk. “Who do we have here?”

I hung my head shyly and stared at my sturdy brown school shoes. “I’m Debbie Jones.”

The lady from the van said, “My husband and I brought her in from Kent Academy because they’re afraid her wrist might be broken.” She turned toward the door and waved. “Goodbye, Debbie. We’re heading on errands for the compound. They’ll take good care of you here.”

How Badly Does an X-ray Hurt?

The nurse reached out her hand and held mine. “You can call me Aunt Belva. I know your mom and dad. I’ll get you ready for the x-ray.”

Her upper front teeth were crooked, but she had a wide, friendly smile and sparkly eyes. I don’t know her, but I’m glad she knows my family.

Our feet clip-clopped on the smooth cement floor as we walked down the long hall. “This is the way to the x-ray room.” She smiled as she talked, but butterflies began to flit wildly around in my stomach again.

We passed open doors on both sides of the hallway. One of these rooms on the right was where I visited Mom when she stayed with baby Cindy. I smiled and the tummy butterflies settled down.

At the end of the long hall stood a closed set of doors with a dark, square window in each. What are they going to do to me in there? The butterflies began chasing each other again.

My footsteps slowed as we neared the dark end of the hall. I don’t want to go in there. Maybe an x-ray means they’ll cut open my skin and look inside at my bones.

The nurse pushed open the doors and led me to a room on the left. “Let me help you sit next to the table and rest your arm on it. The machine above you is a camera. It’ll take a picture of your bones, like your dad takes pictures of people.”

Aunt Belva placed a metal tray under my arm. Then she left the room, clicked a switch, and came right back. “The x-ray will be ready in a few minutes.”

Hmm…Is it over? That didn’t hurt one bit.

Soon the doctor walked in. He said, “You have a broken wrist, which is why it hurts so much. I’ll give you a plaster cast, up past your elbow, and you’ll be good as new.”

Tears filled my eyes. If it really is broken, how’s he going to fix it? Will he use special glue or tape or will he sew it?

In the room next door, they lifted me onto a table with wheels. I lay flat, looking up at a bright light. The doctor’s large hand grabbed a round, rubber mask, and he lowered it, covering my mouth and nose.

“Breathe in,” he said. “I’m giving you ether, so you won’t feel any pain.”

I took a big whiff. It smelled awful—like gasoline with spices—and it burned my throat. I coughed and lifted my hand to the mask.

Please take this thing off!

I blacked out.

Looking Back

Now, as an adult, I realize the staff didn’t know they needed to explain what was happening to me and didn’t know how to comfort me. That made the whole experience even more difficult.

The trip to the hospital was scary. The only things I had seen that were broken were in two or more pieces. I didn’t know if the doctor was going to remove my limb completely to fix it and tape it back onto my shoulder or what! We need to remember to explain to kids what’s happening because they don’t know a whole lot of stuff and those unknowns are scary.

What I Know Now

Aunt Belva’s gentle, cheerful, demeanor made her beautiful, yet she stayed single all her life. It wasn’t until years later I discovered she was a member of the same church as my family in our hometown of Oakland, California. Her furloughs never coincided with ours. One Sunday morning when I was in college, I walked into the sanctuary and there was Aunt Belva, the nurse from Nigeria, sitting in the back row. I slipped into the pew beside her. She smiled the same wide, crooked-tooth smile, and it felt surreal to see her in America.

As we talked about our memories of Nigeria, Aunt Belva’s brown eyes sparkled.

Link It to Your Life 

What fears have you faced when experiencing something new and unknown? What idea or person helped bring you through it?

Do you have a childhood memory of being sick or injured? How were you treated? Reflect or journal about something that was comforting and/or the painful or scary parts of your experience. 

Digging Deeper

How might you as an adult relate better to children based on your own childhood experiences?

Father, thank you that you care for the hurting, and you provide medical personnel to help us heal. Please bring a friend alongside everyone who needs support today. Amen

“Comfort, O comfort My people,” says your God.”  Isaiah 40:1 (NASB1995)

To read the previous blog post about how I fell and hurt my arm, click here.

A writer friend of mine, Robby Kautz, started a blog called “The Riven Tree,” where she discusses the importance of addressing emotional trauma. To get to Robby’s website, click here.