How many times must we swallow our hearts, and still stand at the sink scrubbing dishes?
Plunge a mug into suds, rub a sponge around the inside, the outside, along the smooth rim touched by cracked lips; then dunk the cup in clean warm water, as if the ground remains stable under our feet.
To see our children bruised and bloody, to hold no answers on how to fix the broken seams, is to stand as a long silent scream.
Our hearts rupture as our faces remain calm, words form and maybe even travel on steady voices, when inside we crumble like paper tossed into a fire.
We are a hurricane, barely contained, we offer comfort to our child, despite the waves that crash overhead, the riptide that threatens to pull us under.
We answer nurses questions, place the mug on the dish rack, wait for doctors, grab a handful of silverware, stroke our child's hair, dunk the utensils, all while a cyclone rages within.
******
Severe hematoma, blood clot, probable internal bleeding, possible surgery... impossible to rewind time so when Olive raced down the ski hill and abruptly stopped in a casual contest to see who could spray the most snow, she didn't hit an icy groove, or her skis were an inch to the right, or the stop sign more to the left-- there is no way to go backwards and make this right.
In most aspects of my life, I want the freedom to choose, but not late at night in the E.R. when my decision affects the health of my only daughter.
"You can either stay here and we will monitor her for the night or you can drive up to Anchorage now where they can put her under anesthesia and do a more thorough exam."
The doctor tells us if we stay, we still might need to drive up in the middle of the night if Olive's condition worsened or, if even more urgent, take a helicopter known as a "life flight" to Alaska's biggest city.
My initial thought is go, speed towards more resources, more specialists, more possible ways to save my child.
When I look at Olive's face, I can tell her initial thought is stay. Stay in this particular bed, with this kind doctor, without the disruption of a two-hour drive in a snow storm over mountain passes to unfamiliar faces.
I call Nick to consult, ask the doctor more questions, talk over options with Olive, long for a fairy godmother to tell me what to do.
We choose to stay.
I spend most of the night sitting up, hugging my knees, watching Olive's monitor, the pallor of her skin, worried, every time her heart rate alarm beeps, that we made the wrong choice.
As Olive sleeps, I lean against the concrete wall and cry, this medical world too agonizingly familiar from our early days with Elias, but so utterly foreign with my healthy baby girl.
******
Hours earlier.
I do not yet know about Olive's injury. I leave my physical therapy appointment for my knee to meet her bus that returns from the 6th grade ski field trip to Alyeska.
Nick calls from Anchorage. From the side of the highway.
"Something's wrong with the truck. The breaks aren't working right."
It's after 5:00 on a Tuesday evening. I tell him to stay with friends and see if a mechanic can look at it in the morning. He's not sure if he can drive it any further.
I pull up to the school, notice Olive not engaged in a snowball fight with her friends, this, and the look on her face, tells me something's wrong.
"I gotta go. Olive looks upset. I'll call you back."
Olive crashed around noon. She spent the rest of the day in the lodge. She never told her chaperones how much she hurt. She sat by herself at lunch, separate from her friends, quiet on the outside, while inside, the storm brewed.
Nick called back as we drove home.
"I'm at a mechanics."
"Wait, what?"
Nick drove the truck to the nearest exit at Huffman, pulled into a Speedway gas station and noticed a sign on the side that said, among other words, "Breaks".
The mechanic, despite the late hour, offered to check out Nick's truck.
"That's amazing," I say, "What is the chance of a mechanic being there and available to help you right now!?"
Before we hang up, I tell him: "I think Olive hurt herself more than we knew. I'll check her out when we get home."
At lunch I had received a text asking if Olive could take ibuprofen.
Yes, she Ok?
Punch in the gut by another ski. She's fine.
Teachers can not read minds.
As soon as Olive shows me her injury, I know we need to drive back to town to see a doctor. 6:00 p.m. now, our only option the emergency room.
"Elias, I need to take Olive to the hospital. I'll call David and see if he can come check on you."
"Ok," He says, not even looking up from his iPad.
The unexpected hurricane gathers steam, pummels my heart, crushes my lungs, as I start the ignition to the car, buckle my seatbelt, and drive Olive, wrapped in a blanket in the passenger seat, away from home.
******
By 4:00 a.m., after maybe dozing an hour, I finally know we made the right choice, we don't need to drive to Anchorage-- Olive's hematoma shrinks instead of growing larger.
The doctor prepares our discharge papers, with an order for Olive to rest until we see her again on Friday morning. She tells me to watch for a fever, or dizziness, or a change in skin tone, and return to the E.R. or drive straight to Anchorage if needed.
After two long worrisome days, we make it to the Friday appointment.
The doctor evaluates Olive's injury and says: "I'm sending you right up to Anchorage." Concerned about increased bleeding and skin deterioration, she sends us to another emergency room farther away.
"It'll be ok," I tell Olive.
The wind inside me howls. The undertow seizes my ankles. I text my sister-in law, who lives in town, for road snacks, call Nick who will meet us at his sister Lyndsay's house with a to-go bag. The waves grow larger as we say our goodbyes.
I spend most of the car ride worried we are too late. We made the wrong choice to stay in Seward Tuesday night. Surgery is imminent. Irreparable damage has been done.
All this while staying in the right lane, maintaining an appropriate speed, keeping our conversation light.
Luckily, the specialist assures us that if Olive was still bleeding internally she wouldn't be carrying on a conversation. She says Olive will fully recover, it will just take time.
Not weeks but months.
This young compassionate doctor calls Olive "fierce." Says this is one of the worst hematomas she's seen and Olive is one of the toughest patients she's ever treated.
I wish Olive didn't have to be tough, didn't have to know, at age twelve, that her strong, fit body can still break.
The doctor tells us to wait another week before deciding on surgery, the risk of increased bleeding comes with surgical intervention and she remains hopeful that Olive's immune system will start to diminish the clot naturally.
So we return home to rest, watch, wait, with an appointment for six days later.
A Spring break spent in suspended anticipation instead of skiing down snowy slopes, staying in bed instead of at the mountainside Challenge chalet as planned.
******
We stand at the sink, hold a dish rag, and wipe dry a dinner plate, a circular motion like how the sun moves across the sky. Or how the earth circles the sun. We clean the dishes because we can. Because it means we fed our children. Because we see the results of our work. Because it has to be done.
Because we can't catch our children when they fall but we can ask, "Can I get you something to eat?"
We can cut strawberries, salami, cheese and arrange the slices artistically on a plate, add a small bowl of grapes and a piece of chocolate and feel like we are doing something.
We can't move the traps that will snare our children, but we can offer sustenance when they come home hurt.
We can stand at the sink and scrub their bowls clean.
******
When we return to the specialist on day six, we learn the clot grows smaller. No surgery needed. Still a long recovery. No more skiing this year. No Spring track season. Maybe even no Mt. Marathon race in July. But a full recovery expected, with a few more follow up visits, and maybe another specialist to rule out a bleeding disorder, just to be safe.
Safety, a mirage in the distance, desired but elusive, a pristine image we can never truly hold. Like a stunning sunset that loses color before we capture it on our phone.
Olive and I leave the hospital knowing more than when we walked through the big glass doors. We take lighter steps across the ice, slush and puddles of the parking lot.
Our last stop in Anchorage is to the Speedway gas station on Huffman, to the side shop called Timi's Alpina. I walk in the door, an older man stands by the window and the woman at the front desk asks, "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I was hoping to thank the mechanic here."
"That's him," she says as the man by the window walks towards me.
"Last week you stayed late to fix my husband's truck before he drove back down to Seward."
He remembers.
I tell him how my daughter ended up in the emergency room that night and how much worse it would have been if Nick wasn't home with Elias. I ask: "Can I give you a hug?"
He opens his arms and we embrace in the waiting room. When we let go, I tell him, "You choosing to help my husband made such a difference."
"As humans we need to help each other," he tells me. "Sure it's good to make money. But it's really all about helping each other out."
I ask him his name.
"Rasim," he tells me and shows me where his name is written on his coveralls.
As I look in his eyes, I want to cry for this devastating beautiful life we live. How mere seconds can change everything. How a life can shift in a matter of inches.
How sometimes exactly who we need waits for us at the next exit.
I thank him again, and the receptionist, who I learn is his wife, before returning to my car, to my strong, stoic, brave daughter.
Olive and I share sushi and dumplings as we travel down the Seward highway, we listen to Spanish music, neither of us understanding the lyrics, just enjoying the rhythm and the beat, as we roll over the mountain passes towards our home on Resurrection Bay.
******
Despite our desire to protect our children, they will crash, fail, hurt, break, fall-- and when our Mom and Dad sirens blare, when we rush to respond with arms spread wide, we will not arrive on time.
We will be at our desk in another town when the text arrives.
We will be in our car when the phone rings.
We will be asleep when a knock shatters our world.
Dishes might remain in the sink.
For days.
But eventually we will turn on the tap, let the temperature rise, run our hands underneath the waterfall, until it feels just right.
For even swallowed hearts, continue to grow.
PS. After writing this I googled Timi's Alpina, and learned from a news article that Rasim and his wife Katherine named the shop after their son Timi who died at age twenty.
PPS. If you live in South Central Alaska and need work done on your car, you now know where to go.