Mira has always been a tough cookie. She can play though pain that would put me in a coma.
In September 2003, Hurricane Isabel hit the East coast. North of DC, hurricanes aren’t usually deadly. They mean lots of wind, rain and power outages.
The electricity went out that afternoon. Not quite 5-year-old Mira and almost 10-year-old Emma were playing in the basement. Mira was standing on the deep windowsill, coffee table pushed up against the wall. Emma was lying on said table, and Mira attempted to jump over them. She cleared it, but fell forward and landed on her hands.
She broke both bones in her arm.
We drove through the heavy rain to the doctor, where the power was also out. They had generators, but their orthopedist had left since he couldn’t operate any equipment. Our options were to go to the ER (in a hurricane—think of the wait time), or go home and come back in the morning. We chose the latter. They offered her some painkillers, which I think she declined.
And all this time Mira never cried.
A few years later, during a hectic week John and I finally found a few moments to talk. We were sitting in the kitchen while the kids were running around in the living room before bed. Emma came running into the kitchen yelling, “Mom! Mom!”
I turned to her and yelled, “Listen! I need to talk to your Dad! So just give me a few minutes, and don’t come here unless someone is bleeding from the head!”
“But Mira is bleeding from the head!”
They’d been playing some kind of bizarre follow-the-leader. Mira jumped off a chair, collided with Dara and fell into a plant stand, hitting her head. She ended up getting two stitches at the ER.
Again, she never cried.
Although she still complains about the squeaky noise the thread made as the doctor pulled it through her skin.