On November third, Nate had his third x-ray. After several ambiguous days filled with mysterious computer imaging problems and consecutive telehealth appointments with nothing to report, I demanded a disk, picked it up, and FedEx’d it overnight to Santa Barbara. Our PA, Raquel, calls me on Thursday and cheerfully reports that Nate doesn’t need surgery, and the gap she’s been concerned about is at least 75% better than when she’d x-rayed it. She starts talking dates and they’re better than originally anticipated. To say I felt immense relief would be an understatement.
Meanwhile, Nate’s figured out how to navigate our visually impressive yet dangerous staircase. He hot dogs it on his knee scooter, despite my warnings. After school I see him flying down the sidewalk as he makes it to the golf course parking lot in record time. Fortunately, our new rules and routine are working. Tonight I noticed him dancing on his one good leg after dinner. Normal Nate.
The other day I’m asking him how he gets around class, particularly when he has to present and he says, “Mom, I’m a professional hopper.” I’m not sure where he received accreditation, but he does hop a lot. We all know when he’s awake as he stomp-stomp-stomps his way to the bathroom.
Everyone keeps asking about Nate’s spirits and whether he’s down in the dumps. When I ask him how he’s doing and whether he feels sad, he just laughs. He has no idea why the situation would make him feel sad or cry. With a mirthful spark in his eye, all he says is, “I wish I’d broken my left arm.”
As Granddad pointed out, spoken like a true footballer.