By Meg McGovern
11:00 pm. I am in a deep REM sleep when the light from my phone startles me awake. His name scrolls across the top. I fumble to grab it, my voice course, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m in the hospital, Mom. I had a bad rock-climbing fall…about 20 feet down. The ER is running tests, but no head injury.”
I’m holding my breath while he talks. With his words, no head injury, I breathe out. “I broke a big bone in my arm and I’m in a cast from fingers to shoulder.” The tears are pooling in my eyes; my heart is beating rapidly. This boy of mine is taking years off my life.
“Oh my God, Pete. What happened?”
“Mom, I’ll fill you in tomorrow. I’m waiting for more tests. I need surgery, probably screws and a plate. I’m okay,” he says trying to reassure me.
Lying in bed, my mind goes to a dark place, the thought of losing my son, even though he has survived this fall. This is not the first time the phone has rung with news of an injury. The time when Peter was skiing in Vermont. His friend’s mom called to say Peter landed a ski jump on his side and fractured his collar bone. It was bad, she had said. That was his third collar bone break, the first two from playing football. There was the call when Peter was living in Utah, skiing at Alta every day, when he jumped off a cliff, landed with a ski pole to the side of his nose. The result a concussion, and a severe break needing surgery.
I roll from my side to my back, to my side again for the rest of the night, dozing here and there, but my thoughts and worries keep waking me. I think about our mother-son bond. Peter and I can read each other’s emotions. We have deep conversations about life, what’s on our minds, hopes and dreams. I know people who have lost sons or daughters to cancer, to suicide, to accidents. How does a mother go on without that ripping her apart? Years ago, I asked my friend whose son had a diving accident and became a quadriplegic, how she went on. She said, “I have to, and you’d do the same.”
Am I that strong? I wondered. With each of Peter’s injuries I talk to a higher power and plead to keep him safe.
Peter calls back at 8:00 a.m. He was up most of the night having CT scans and more x-rays. Surgery for his broken Ulna bone, the longest bone in the forearm that connects the wrist to the elbow, is scheduled for 2:00 pm that day.
“Tell me what happened, Peter.” As he spoke, I imagine the scene with my son falling like a meteor from the sky.
“My buddy and I were rushing to get down the rocks before dark. We made mistakes. We forgot to knot the rope. I was belaying down, and the rope went through the hook instead of catching. I felt myself falling and falling, then landing hard on my back and hitting my head. Ry tried to stop my fall, and he saved me from something far worse.”
“Geez, Pete.”
“There was blood gushing like a geyser from somewhere. Ry checked my head, legs, then arms. It was my left arm. He tied a shirt around my bicep to make a tourniquet and called 911 to meet us at the car, 1 mile out. Ry helped me out of the harness and my climbing shoes, put on my Bedrock sandals and we hoofed it out as fast as we could. The ambulance was there and took me to the hospital. It could have been so much worse, Mom.” His voice crackled, I used to think I was invincible.”
My voice crackled back, “None of us are, Pete. You have a guardian angel who knows I couldn’t go on without you, and you have a full life to live.”
* * *
Meg is an author, speaker, and retired teacher. She authored We’re Good, The Power of Faith, Hope & Determination. Other writing can be found in Brevity and Five Minute Lit. She earned an MFA in Nonfiction Writing from Fairfield University. Her memoir, Shifting Places, was a finalist for the 2023 Fairfield University Book Contest. She and her husband retired in New Hampshire to be near the lakes and mountains. Aside from reading and writing, Meg loves to swim, kayak, hike with her dog, ski, and spend time with her husband, sons, their partners, and her 2-year-old grandson.