This week I begin my last week in my 50s. In celebration of that, I'm dipping into the archives every day this week to feature something I've written in the past. Today is the 210th day of the year. The 210th Aesop Fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, inspired this column which appeared on the back page of Shore Magazine in 2008.
You’re supposed to say “Break a Leg” to entertainers before a performance instead of “Good Luck,” because saying “Good luck” is actually considered bad luck.
I know, I know. It has never made sense to me either.
And after what I saw this past week, I will never say “Break a leg” to anyone ever again.
It happened on the ski slopes, about fifty yards away from the spot I tore the ligaments in my thumb last year. I was riding on the chairlift when I heard this horrible screaming. It was such a loud plaintive wail, that I thought it must have been kids goofing around, but within a few minutes I saw the Ski Patrol skiing in the direction of the cry.
A few minutes later, my sister was skiing up to me to let me know that the screaming in question was coming from my son Tommy.
“Oh no, is he OK?’” I asked.
“It doesn’t sound like it, but with Tommy you never know.”
I should tell you that Tommy isn’t exactly known for his calm approach to pain and suffering. Let me put it this way; we often don’t know whether to say “Good Luck” or “Break a Leg” to him before treating his injuries. There’s always a chance that it’s a bit of a performance. He can make a stubbed toe sound like a gunshot wound.
When I arrived at the site of the accident, the Ski Patrol looked a little perplexed. Tommy was rolled into a little ball and was writhing in agony.
“Is he always like this?” they asked.
Honesty compelled me to admit he was.
“We have to stabilize the leg to move him,” they said. “Can you talk to him?”
So, I knelt down by his side and told him to be a man and straighten his leg so the Ski Patrol could move him. It took a few minutes, a few more condescending scoldings from me, and a few thousand screams, but he eventually did it.
I have to admit, I really didn’t think he was badly hurt. I know that sounds terrible, but the old ‘Boy who cried wolf’ story (a story I tell him after nearly every dramatic overreaction to a minor mishap), immediately came to mind.
This time, unfortunately, the wolf was real. And I was the father that allowed his son to be eaten by it.
Tommy had a broken tibia, which is an extremely painful injury. All of those screams and wails and moans were completely authentic. He was put on some pretty heavy duty pain medication for the next three days, and even with the meds, he was moaning in pain.
Real pain.
When they reset his leg at the doctor’s office after the swelling went down a few days later, it was like listening to a wounded animal. That sound is going to stay with me for awhile. As will my initial doubt about the severity of his pain, and my initial tone of voice to a suffering boy.
Did anyone ever interview the Boy who Cried Wolf’s father after his son was eaten? I’m betting he didn’t deliver the smiling ‘I told you so’ that the story implies.
I feel like I actually did that to my son.
And yes, I am beating myself up for it. No need to pile on.
On the other hand, this whole thing has also been a learning experience for me.
If “The Boy who Cried Wolf” is ever converted for the theater, I know exactly what I’ll say to the actor portraying the boy before he goes on stage.
“Good Luck.”
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