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Sound and Pain

Apparently sound travels faster than pain.

As a 9 year old he’d never really thought about how fast sound travels, but there he was - laying in the middle of a gymnasium, crying out in pain. He definitely felt the pain, but not until well after he’d heard his collarbone snap into two very separate pieces.

He rolled back and forth on the mat clutching his shoulder, oblivious to everything around him but the pain that he was feeling. He ended up in a fetal position. Soon a hand touched the small of his back - he called out again, as if this had caused him more pain.

“Are you ok?”

He didn’t answer, he just stared down at the mat below his feet. Finally, realizing his situation, and becoming ashamed to be crying in front of so many people. He sat up and wiped the tears from his face with his left hand. They were quickly replaced, he let them stay on his face and clutched his right wrist and held it tightly to his chest. He heard the conversation going on around him.

“He’s ok, he’s just never lost, doesn’t know how to handle it.”

“You’re sure? He really sounds like he’s hurt.”

“I’m sure, just give us a minute.”

“Alright, lets get this finished up then.”

The conversation was over - another hand was on him, before a word was said he knew the intention. He rotated away from the touch, with the movement, the pain poured over him again. Though the words were setup like a discussion, only one half mattered.

“You’re going to finish this.”

“Theres only 30 seconds left, finish this out and we can go.”

That was all that was to be said. He nodded his head, and - still sobbing - crawled to his position at the center of the mat. He gingerly extended his right arm and placed it in position. His opponent followed - making no attempt to apply extra force and exploit the damaged limb.

The whistle blew and what followed was 30 everlasting seconds of awkward maneuvering by a dominant opponent trying to look convincingly like he was trying to score more points while the clock ran out.

When the whistle blew the boy rested on his knees for a time, collecting himself before he rose to his feet. He reached out, shook the victors right hand with his left and Immediately returned to his pose: right arm across his chest, grasping the armpit with his left holding it in place by grasping the top of his own wrist. From a distance it might have looked like he was covering his heart for the pledge of allegiance.

He leaned against the padding at the edge of the gymnasium as this father held out a shirt for him to pull on. He looked at the shirt, wondering how to pull it on without letting go of his arm.

“That was a great job finishing out that match.”

He grabbed deep into his armpit with his right hand in an attempt to stabilize the shoulder, reached with his left and took the shirt. The sudden lack of support on the damaged shoulder caused a renewed wave of pain. He strained to get the shirt on, wounding why he was not receiving help. He saw his father, on a borrowed cellular phone and walked towards him. He made out the last sentence.

“Sure, that will work fine, I’ll have him in Tomorrow at 9:30. Thanks.”

They began to walk towards the exit. He was certain that everyone in the building was watching him. A man jogged over to them, holding out a small plastic baggie, his father took it and thanked the man. He showed the boy: it was a small, silver medal.

“Not too bad, you still took second.”

They pulled out of the parking lot and started the trip home, nearly an hour drive. He moved straight to the back seat, and tried to become part of it.

Before they had travelled very far he felt himself shifted forward in the seat as the van slowed down. The movement brought the pain back, the tears were quick to follow. From the front seat:

“Shit.”

Pain shot through the right half of his body as he sat up to see what was happening.

They were pulled over alongside an empty field, its rows covered in several inches of snow. Behind them he saw the red and blue lights of the state police cruiser which had pulled them over.

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

“I’m just heading… trying to get my son to a Doctor, sir.”

“No, he got hurt at the wrestling tournament at the high school.”

“His shoulder, I’m not sure.”

He saw the officer lean into the window and look back at him, covered in tears and clutching his shoulder.

“Oh, thank you so much, sir.”

After a moment he was pushed back in his seat as they began moving forward again.

As he eased himself back down to the seat, a wave of pain, similar to how he imagined boiling water pouring over his skin would feel, ran from his shoulder and through the entire right side of his body. It intensified with every bump. He wiped away the tears, closed his eyes, and hoped he would arrive home soon.