We visited Teresa's parents over Thanksgiving, and during one of our outdoor hikes, Elena slipped, fell, and cut her palm on a sharp rock. It wasn't just a tiny cut; it was a nice 1/2" gash, and pretty deep to boot. It bled pretty well, too.
We cleaned it up and put some ointment on it, but Elena really didn't want a bandage. She's expressed that opinion before: when she scrapes her knee or whatnot, she'll specifically request "no Band-Aid." With a scraped knee it's not a big deal to agree, but with a fairly deep cut on her palm (a place that's sure to attract more dirt), a bandage is kind of a must. So we insisted.
And Elena was upset. She cried and cried, much longer than she normally does, stopping and starting more than once. Maybe it wasn't the bandage, maybe it was the painful gash, but she's bonked herself pretty hard before, and after the initial shock wears off she's usually relatively stoic. But she wasn't being stoic this time.
Her reaction, plus the fact that she specifically rejects Band-Aids, plus the fact that one of the things she remembers well enough about the orphanage to talk about is a trip to the doctor; all makes us think that there's something traumatic in her past associated with bandages. A painful shot, or being (seemingly) abandoned in an examination room - not necessarily something that would be traumatic to an adult, but something that a child wouldn't understand. We don't know; we weren't there. And we'll probably never know.
Luckily, Elena seems to be pretty resiliant. Before long, her uncle distracted her with a ride on his shoulders, and she forgot about the bandage long enough to realize that nothing bad was happening. She was even OK with putting on a fresh bandage later in the day.
The gash in her palm is doing nicely, and now is nearly completely healed. Elena and I were talking about it last night. I showed her the scar on my own palm, where a broken garage door handle had gouged a hole years ago.
"See?" I said. "Soon your cut will turn into a scar just like mine."
She looked closely at my hand. "Hard to see it," she said.
Sometimes it is. But it's always there.
We cleaned it up and put some ointment on it, but Elena really didn't want a bandage. She's expressed that opinion before: when she scrapes her knee or whatnot, she'll specifically request "no Band-Aid." With a scraped knee it's not a big deal to agree, but with a fairly deep cut on her palm (a place that's sure to attract more dirt), a bandage is kind of a must. So we insisted.
And Elena was upset. She cried and cried, much longer than she normally does, stopping and starting more than once. Maybe it wasn't the bandage, maybe it was the painful gash, but she's bonked herself pretty hard before, and after the initial shock wears off she's usually relatively stoic. But she wasn't being stoic this time.
Her reaction, plus the fact that she specifically rejects Band-Aids, plus the fact that one of the things she remembers well enough about the orphanage to talk about is a trip to the doctor; all makes us think that there's something traumatic in her past associated with bandages. A painful shot, or being (seemingly) abandoned in an examination room - not necessarily something that would be traumatic to an adult, but something that a child wouldn't understand. We don't know; we weren't there. And we'll probably never know.
Luckily, Elena seems to be pretty resiliant. Before long, her uncle distracted her with a ride on his shoulders, and she forgot about the bandage long enough to realize that nothing bad was happening. She was even OK with putting on a fresh bandage later in the day.
The gash in her palm is doing nicely, and now is nearly completely healed. Elena and I were talking about it last night. I showed her the scar on my own palm, where a broken garage door handle had gouged a hole years ago.
"See?" I said. "Soon your cut will turn into a scar just like mine."
She looked closely at my hand. "Hard to see it," she said.
Sometimes it is. But it's always there.
Hope you had a great Christmas. Love you. Aunt Judy
ReplyDelete