The Hollow Blessing
I sit with my foot elevated. The orthopedic air-walker boot rests on the floor within reach. The ice pack encircles my swollen ankle. Black and blue are the trendy color of my toes. In short, I broke my ankle. Given the course of the past week, I’d take this broken ankle over and over and over again . . . because my granddaughter is ok.
It was a fluke of an accident; one of those transcending moments that define a shift to the unwelcome. One minute was photo-worthy; my husband frolicking in the hammock with our grandchildren. The next was a slingshot into terror. A tree trunk fell, toppling the hammock to the ground. The tree fell on our almost 6-year-old Amelia’s head. 911 emergency call. Curbing alarm. Working in tandem. Assessing. And then, a harrowing and red-light-running 40-minute trip to the Dayton Children’s Hospital Emergency Department.
The sequence of events catapulted us into almost paralyzing fear. Our family knows all too well the world of traumatic brain injury. My nephew, Conor Crippen, is a TBI survivor. Brain injury is one of those things that unless you are thrust into that world, you have no awareness. Our family is all too aware. Unprepared reminders of trauma permeated our reason. There was no space for rational thought. The shallowed breath of another time took over.
At the end of a very long day with what seemed like an eternity of medical assessment, the diagnosis was concussion. We began to breathe, knowing with rest, Amelia’s beautiful and promising brain could heal. Rest, rest, and more rest. As her smile and twinkling eyes returned after too many hours of dimness. Gratitude was redefined.
Oh, and about my ankle? In the flurry of the hammock collapse, I tripped. It broke. Plain and simple.
Over the last few days, I’ve had quite a bit of reflection time. Ambulatory restrictions and ice packs do that. I’ve been reminded of that which I already know: accidents, medical diagnoses, sudden loss, or the grind of long-term struggles place us in a dwelling place we didn’t ask for. The litany of uninvited circumstance is vast. For those of you in the midst, you know what I mean.
It will take much longer than I wish for my ankle to mend. My required footwear over the next several months will cramp my fashionable style. Hopefully sometime in 2022 I’ll wear something other than support shoes. But don’t misinterpret what might sound like lament. Our Amelia is ok. Let me repeat, Amelia is ok. This is where my reflection yields to a grace far greater than I’m capable of understanding. The tree, maybe hollow with rot, gave life as it spared her sweet brain from severe and debilitating trauma. Could it be that rot made way for hope?
Although we can now rest in the gratitude for Amelia’s healing, many are still in the throes of struggle. Space is hard to come by. My wish is this: In the heaviness of your burden, I hope there’s an unexpected moment of hollow, during which respite can reassure your weary heart.