Does this dress flatter my purple boob?

On fragility, and community - and being bruised but not broken

A couple of weeks ago I was largely preoccupied with finishing stories I’d brought back from my latest reporting trip to New Hampshire, and what to wear to the Murrow Award ceremony in NYC next month.

That changed in an instant.

The moment my son was wheeled out of the children’s hospital in Norfolk, CHKD, after eight days inpatient, was one of the happiest of my life. (He can walk, thank goodness, but they wheeled him out because he was still pretty weak.) /Sarah McCammon

I’m still thinking about those things, but they’re extremely on the backburner compared to thinking that:

• I’m grateful my son is alive and healing

• I’m grateful I’m alive and healing

• I’m grateful for EMTs, emergency room doctors, pediatricians, nurses, neurologists, surgeons, physical therapists, mental health therapists, and other skilled and compassionate healthcare providers

• I’m grateful for advanced automotive engineering, including seatbelts and airbags

• I’m grateful for my community - friends, family, colleagues, and neighbors

And hundreds of logistical details, like how to replace my car and what car is the safest and when we’re really going to be ready for work and school, and how to fit all of these doctors’ appointments into that.

Here’s the backstory: My 12-year-old son and I were victims of a head-on car crash earlier this month with a person who was cited for reckless driving. It was scary, traumatic, and dangerous and we are grateful to be alive and recovering. We both required surgery and my son was hospitalized for eight days, primarily for internal injuries.

I’m dealing with a lot of emotions, including anger and anxiety. I have some physical pain and I’m not sleeping well. Watching my child go through a trauma followed by a medical crisis and a painful recovery has by far been the most difficult part of this.

And as I mentioned, I’m also feeling gratitude for the many mercies we’ve experienced since the accident.

The cards have been rivaled only by the desserts. /Sarah McCammon

I sometimes struggle with feeling like I live my life in fragments: I’ve lived in half-a-dozen different communities over the course of my adult life. I’m on my second marriage. I split my time between two cities and travel a lot in an effort to balance the personal and professional. I often feel spread too thin, and sometimes wonder who I am, where’s home, and who my people really are.

The hard-won lesson in all of this is that those pieces of our lives aren’t fragments, but components:

My husband and me, and my ex-husband and his partner, in our son’s hospital room, working together, switching off night shifts. My stepdaughter mailing homemade chocolate chip cookies. Barbecue ordered in by my husband’s former spouse and her spouse. A dear friend from the neighborhood dropping by with casseroles, and gingerbread cookies. My son’s friends dropping by with cards and toys and snacks and art supplies. A soup care package from close friends in D.C. - with cookies. Flowers from my mother-in-law and my son’s best friend’s mom. Family and chosen family driving and flying to stay with us, including my aunts - one of whom made chocolate chip cookies. The boys’ godmother in California sending toys and balloons for the hospital room. Friends from Georgia sending sugar cookies from an amazing Savannah bakery. Meal delivery gift cards from friends of my husband that I have yet to meet. Cards and gifts arriving from colleagues from Nebraska to D.C. NPR colleagues sending several gift baskets - including one with a couple varieties of delicious cookies, naturally.

And so many calls, text messages, and DMs - from friends from every chapter of our lives, from early childhood to the synagogue we’ve been attending recently in Norfolk.

Did I mention cookies?

We took some to the fire station to thank the heroic EMTs who took such good care of us at our most frightening moment, but mostly we ate them. /Sarah McCammon

I’m not going to tell you not to deal with PTSD by eating an undisclosed number of cookies in quick succession while drinking wine, because that would be hypocritical.

I’m still trying to figure out what to wear to the Murrow ceremony in a couple of weeks. I have a nasty surgery scar on my left collarbone (it’s in shadow in this picture and partly covered by the dress, but hard to truly hide in black-tie apparel). My left shoulder and ribcage hurt, and it’s difficult to try on dresses unless they zip up the back or have big, open necklines.

I don’t think this dress is the one. But I’m trying to start imagining life getting back to “normal.”

My stomach is still covered in adhesive from the ER’s trauma bay. That stuff is STICKY.

One of my breasts is purple from the seatbelt impact, or maybe the airbag. But I’ll take it over the alternative. And I’ll spare you that photo, because I’m a professional.

I also have bruising from the seatbelt - a big hematoma on one side - which makes my hips look puffy (I am over 40 and have carried two children; I don’t need any more of that, thank you very much!) At least I have something to blame besides the cookies!

So nothing really looks - or feels - quite right, right now.

But even so, I’m incredibly grateful.

And please: Nag your kids until they absolutely hate you to wear their seatbelts EVERY time, even close to home. I’m pretty sure they saved our lives.