Last year, I came home from work on Columbus Day, and excitedly watched Connor test out the neighbor's new zipline. And then I watched him plunge over 10 feet to the ground, and land on his left arm.
An arm isn't made to take that kind of abuse, and it snapped. Badly. It required two surgeries, more x-rays than I'll ever be able to remember, and follow-up appointments that lasted until about a week ago. His arm is, for all intents and purposes, healed. The bone still has a slight curve, but the surgeon doesn't anticipate any problems. Connor has recovered full range of motion, and that's the most important thing right now.
I regularly wake up in a panic, as I imagine him falling over, and over, and over. Every time it's shocking - and every time I am so grateful that he lands on his arm and not his back or neck.
As traumatic as the whole thing remains for me, Connor has mostly forgotten it. What a powerful thing memory can be. We were playing hooky a few weeks ago at the ice cream store and we ran into a friend of his, who had just broken his arm. His friend was in a lot of pain. As we were leaving the store, Connor remarked "I'm glad it didn't hurt that much when I broke my arm".
I did a double-take. Not painful? I guess that's how the mind heals.
Someday, I hope mine does, too.