The Sound of Her Pain

I have experienced and witnessed a wide range of pain in my life. And I have noticed, there is a common sound that can be attributed to nearly all deep, guttural pain. The sound of prayer.

This week we knocked out two family firsts in a single moment. First child in our family with a broken bone and first dislocation. We're not the first family to hit this milestone in our friends group. We know several who have walked through the right of passage before us, and therefore, are familiar with the sound of a broken bone.

For us it went, "Thump, thump, thump, crash!" as she fell down the stairs. Then the shriek. The shrill cries of a child professing, "It hurts! It hurts!" followed by the frantic footsteps of parents and siblings beating down the hall to take inventory. In those 2.5 seconds I wondered, "Will there be blood? A bruise? Is she concussed? God, I hope nothing is broken. I hope I can't see a bone. I'm going to let my husband look first."

When you look at a child's arm hanging limp in the shape of a question mark you collect yourself. Or at least I did. This is not time for "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. Does it hurt? Do you need ice?" This is "Wow. OK. I'm going to get my shoes on. Where are my keys? We got this." Mama mode activated.

My 9-year old's arm LOOKED dislocated. Every movement was excruciating for her. Getting into and out of the car, moving through security and registering at the ER, all proved challenging. But the hardest part was still to come. Every person we came in contact with was kind, gentle, and professional. When the woman at the counter was taking our information I watched her head cock to the side and her eyes get big. "Left arm?" She asked. Yes, "Did my husband call and tell you we were coming?" I asked. "Nope. She said with eyebrows still plastered sky-high. "I can see the arm."

Oh.

From there things moved as quickly as possible. But it's still an ER in a big city. So we waited. And as we waited the sound of my daughter's pain changed.

She moved from "It hurts! It hurts!" to "I can't do this! I can't!"

Her voice got louder and I looked around the waiting room to assess our surroundings. Mostly fevers and respiratory illnesses I guessed. Maybe gastrointestinal stuff. No obvious injuries, except ours. A man walked around with coloring books and craft sets to help kids pass the time. He walked by us and slumped his shoulders in a compassionate cringe.

The voice next to me got louder and more brazen. "I want to make it stop! I'd do anything to make it stop! I wish this day never happened. I wish I was NEVER born!"

OK, dear. I hear you. I wish I could take the pain away. I'd do anything too, baby.

"You have to make it stop, Mama! Please make it stop! I can't DO THIS!"

And then my girl crossed over into what I believe is a universal language of pain. Without lowering her volume she spoke into the sterile waiting room filled with tired parents and uncomfortable kids. "WHY DOES GOD ALLOW PAIN?! WHY WOULD HE MAKE ME IF HE KNEW I'D FEEL THIS!" "Help, me God! Make it better!!!"

As I said earlier, I've sat in enough of these moments as a friends, pastor, and counselor, to know these are holy moments. Not to be answered. Not to be solved. And definitely not to quieted.

My heart broke for her. I wanted to fix it. Despite all my mom skills and super-powers, this was beyond my control. I had little to offer.

I will be with you every step of the way.

We will get through this together.

I won't leave you.

Let's get through this moment, then we'll breath through the next.

As the room filled with the sound of her sobs I identified a certain pride rising in me. A feeling of protection mixed with mama-bear strength. Strangely enough, it felt something akin to joy...the joy of watching my daughter cross the bridge of unfathomable pain into honest lament. It was beautiful, sacred, awful and tragic, but deeply right.

I don't know how many others in the room were crying out in the own quiet way. I don't know how many others she permissioned to be honest. Maybe some were annoyed. Maybe empathy was awakened in someone as their nervous system responded to the sounds of a child in pain.

There are plenty of times it's inappropriate to raise your voice. The majority of spaces we enter are perfectly conducive to silent meditation, quiet conversation, and patience. Pain offers a unique pass, though. Especially pain accompanies by grief, loss of hope, and the absence of relief. It's a sorrow that needs to be heard.

Hopefully my kids won't break too many bones. Hopefully our shrieks and tears will accompany dance parties and fits of laughter more than ER visits. As they get older, though, they'll begin to face different forms of suffering. Instead of a dislocated arm, the theological questions will follow heartache or disappointment. This week was easy compared to what life inevitably will serve each of them.

And yet I hope the sound remains. I hope she's able to walk into the waiting room of life, where we've all felt miserable, misunderstood, and heavy hearted, and lift her voice. I hope she continues to breath through the waves of pain. In vulnerability and honesty, I hope she permissions others to say what many think and feel on our lowest days.

Maybe more than anything I hope I can follow her lead. What questions are rumbling inside that I haven't released? What cry needs to be heard? What discomfort requires deep breathing instead of doom scrolling? When might the shrill sound of pain be more appropriate than the silence we think we want?

Some time after triage and x-rays and before ortho, her voice changed again. She walked a few steps in front of me down the hall. I could hear her preaching to herself through regulated breaths, "I can do this. We're doing it. I'm ok."

Elie is back home and healing. She's got a new bright pink caste and a screw holding her in place that will probably be with her forever. Good as new. Maybe better than new, considering she's walked through a pretty dark valley for a 9-year old and, in her words, "I found my peace."