On Tuesday this week I took my son to the bone doc for his last follow-up appointment. The broken arm had healed beautifully, according to the new x-rays, and the doc removed the last of the restrictions and told my son to "go be a kid."
On Thursday Mike was being a kid and playing battle ball (like dodge ball, only rougher) at school, took a spill, and landed wrong. Brand-new, clean fracture of the fifth metatarsal in his left foot.
There's nothing to blame. No bone disease. No health threat or danger at the school -- although I intend to investigate further there, to be sure -- and no bully regularly beating up my kid. As the doc told me, it's just coincidence, or bad luck. Considering the year we've had, par for the course.
I sat thinking last night that 2004 now resembles the the plot of a Martin Cruz Smith novel. Awful and quite unbelievable things regularly have happened; interesting people stood around being mildly, intellectually surprised; no one yet has offered me a decent explanation. I need Arkady Renko to quit moping over Irina so he can explain this year to me and maybe beat someone responsible to a pulp before he saves the tattered remnants of Communism again.
Fiction not being reality, I simply need this wretched year to be over. No, actually, I want it dead, but I'll settle for over.
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