Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, November 23, 1995 TAG: 9511240003
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-1 EDITION: HOLIDAY
SOURCE: DONNA ALVIS-BANKS STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: CHRISTIANSBURG LENGTH: Long
On Wednesday, he grew up.
One minute he was a carefree boy, racing downhill on his prized Trek bike.
"I like to feel the wind blowing my hair back," he told me.
The next minute he was bleeding, lying on the hot asphalt of Tomahawk Drive.
He was coming down the hill on the outside of a curve when he veered to the wrong side of the road, according to the police report. The driver of the car going up the hill couldn't see Darin on his bicycle because thick foliage bordering the winding road obscured the view.
The last thought Darin had before the impact was to twist his body sideways.
"I didn't want to hit my head, Mom," he told me.
Despite all my nagging and pleading, my son wasn't wearing his helmet.
When the kids following Darin caught up with him, they said they heard him calling for me.
I couldn't hear his cries. I was listening to the whispering of waves at a quiet beach in North Carolina.
I was 325 miles away from my youngest son the day he grew up.
I had the feeling I was running against the tide as my husband, Rick, and I sailed down Interstate 81, heading south.
Darin and his older brother, Dee, were spending a week with their father. Like lots of kids their age, they're accustomed to divvying up their summer vacation between divorced parents. They look forward to days at Dad's house.
I'm the one who feels the separation anxiety.
"No way am I going to feel guilty about this," I vowed aloud.
"We earned this vacation," I rambled. "Anyone who walks around Six Flags Over Georgia for 10 hours in 105-degree heat with two live wires deserves a break. Right?"
Rick indulged me.
"Right," he agreed, no doubt remembering the racket coming from the back seat during that interminable road trip to Atlanta.
There was a smile on his face as he glanced in the rearview mirror and watched Christiansburg quietly fading out of sight.
The Atlantic, warmed by the August sun, rolled up in gentle waves on the beach. "This is wonderful," I said to Rick as we relaxed under our umbrellas, wishing time would stand still.
We got the phone call at 6 Wednesday evening.
Rick's daughter, Kasandra, was on the other end at Montgomery Regional Hospital, where she works in the emergency room. She had been on duty earlier that afternoon when the Christiansburg Rescue Squad hustled Darin in.
"It's pretty bad, Dad," she told Rick.
Rick hung up the phone and turned to me.
"Darin's been in an accident," he began, quickly reaching to grasp my arms. "He's OK, though. He's at the hospital now."
I did what I always do when I come unglued. I danced.
I swooped around the room, hopping up and down and hugging myself to hold the pieces together.
"What? Where? When? How?" I asked my alarmed husband.
His answers came to me in snatches: riding his bike ... a car ... broken leg ... no, there's no head injury ... he's going to be OK ... .
The phone rang again. It was Kasandra, calling to let us know she had tracked down Darin's doctor so he could answer our questions.
I liked Dr. Thomas Brown as soon as I heard his kind voice.
My son's right leg was broken in two places: a clean fracture in the midsection of his femur, a compound fracture in the tibia. His left wrist had an angulated fracture.
The doctor recommended surgery called "rodding" for the broken femur. "We insert a rod in the bone canal, making an incision at the hip. In six months to a year, the rod may be taken out."
"It's a big operation," he added. "What a shame this happened while you're on vacation. Of course, I wouldn't tell you not to be here."
In less than an hour, Rick and I were on our way home. This ride, I knew, would be a silent one.
As the darkness fell, I knew, too, that this would be the longest night of my life.
I willed the van to go faster but the needle on the speedometer stubbornly hovered at 65.
I looked at the glowing numbers on the dashboard clock.
9 p.m.
I closed my eyes to sleep. It seemed as if I dozed for an hour or more.
When I opened my eyes again, the clock read 9:03.
Every muscle in my body ached. Wringing my hands, I passed the time reminiscing with God.
From Darin's difficult birth to his first soccer game to the time he said his first blessing -"Hey God! Thanks for fire extinguishers and the fish in Teel's Pond ..." -I relived the past 13 years.
Rick turned into our driveway about 3 a.m.
"You go to bed," I told my weary husband. "I'm going to the hospital."
"I'll follow you in the car," Rick said firmly. He knew I wouldn't leave the hospital once we got there.
"I'll be OK," I protested. "You've driven nearly eight hours. You need to sleep."
Rick didn't waver. He followed me outside.
Darin's face was pale. His blond hair was slick with sweat. His blue eyes looked wide and frightened and bluer than usual.
If I spent the next 20 years trying to find the words to describe the way I felt when I saw him, I wouldn't succeed.
As bad as he looked - and he looked pretty bad - my son was a beautiful sight.
The skin on his arms and legs and belly was torn away in patches. His right leg was swollen and purple. His left wrist was swathed in white gauze.
Amazed, I saw that his head was unharmed. Not even a scratch.
"God had your head cradled under his arm," I told him later as I stroked his hair.
"I know it, Mom," he agreed.
"I'll wear my helmet from now on," he promised. "Do you think they'll want me to talk to the kids at school about wearing their helmets?"
I couldn't answer Darin's question. My throat was too tight.
Darin spent six nights in the hospital.
I spent six nights in the hospital, too.
He slept fitfully, waking angrily when the pain gripped him.
Sometimes, he took out his frustration on me.
"Would you like a cool washcloth?" I asked, pressing my palm against his feverish forehead.
"No, Mom!" he bellowed. "I'd like a new leg!"
Other times, he cried and squeezed my hand as I held him.
"I love you," he said repeatedly.
We sat together in the wee hours of the morning, talking.
"Maybe I ought to be a volunteer on the rescue squad," Darin said. "They saved me."
"You know, Mom," he said as I drowsed in the chair beside his bed, "there is one good thing about being in the hospital."
With effort, I raised my eyebrows.
"What's that, Dare?"
"Dee has to do all my chores!"
Champ.
It may sound corny, but it's the word that comes to mind when I remember how my son handled the past three months.
A week after he was released from the hospital, he was out in the driveway playing wheelchair basketball.
"My shot's off," he grinned, holding up his left wrist. The cast was already frayed.
He missed the first month of school, alternating his days with me and with his Dad at our two houses. We both longed to answer Darin's daily question, "When can I go back to school?" His homebound teacher, Mr. Morganstern, was a lifesaver.
"He's working my butt off!" Darin complained before he flashed that grin again. "He's funny, though."
Darin, who's always been the clown of the family, knows one when he sees one.
On Oct. 19, exactly 71 days after the accident happened, Dr. Brown broke the news to his impatient patient.
"I'm sorry, Darin," he said, "but we're not going to put another cast on that leg."
As the nurse sawed through the messages scrawled on the tattered fiberglass mold binding Darin's leg, I felt giddy.
And as he slid off the examining table and took his first wobbly steps, I had this powerful urge to dance.
Darin will never be the same. His limp will gradually disappear as his leg gets stronger. The rod holding his broken bone together will be removed next year. He'll grow taller and bigger and his scars will fade.
But I'm convinced he will never be the same.
I'm not sure he'll carry vivid memories of the accident and his ordeal in the hospital with him forever. In time, he may forget shots and catheters and even the taste of Milk-of-Magnesia.
I may be wrong about the latter.
Still, I know there are some memories that will never go away.
The circle that holds us in our place as the world spins around grew wider for Darin last August. New people, caring people entered his life - rescuers, doctors, nurses, police officers, a student aide named Hope.
And the people already connected to Darin in his circle showed him how important he is. From his best buddy, Brennan, to all his friends in school and scouts and church, Darin's well-wishers drew closer around him.
I don't think he'll ever forget that.
The circle at my Thanksgiving table will be a small one today.
My sons will divvy up the holiday, spending the first half of the day with their Dad.
To them, that means they'll get double helpings of turkey and mashed potatoes.
As kids of divorced parents, I hope they've learned to double - not divide - their love.
Rick, Darin, Dee, Kasandra and I will gather in the dining room this evening, and Darin will recite his customary blessing:
God is great, God is good.
Let us thank Him for our food.
We all love you, God. Amen.
I probably won't be the only one at the Thanksgiving table adding an unspoken postscript:
Hey, God! Thanks for Darin....
by CNB