The trouble with gratitude

Backstory:  my 12-year old son broke his arm on Tuesday.

We had a follow-up doctor’s appointment yesterday, at which they removed and re-applied the cast (OK, technically it’s a splint, not a cast) because the first was too tight.  Then today we saw a pediatric specialist to confirm (big sigh of relief) that he doesn’t need surgery, or, at least, at this point it appears that way.  We’ll have a further appointment next week, then another one in a further week or two.  And we’re now trying to find activities to replace sailing camp (remember, I work at home, so I try hard to keep busy doing at least something to keep him out of my hair) and hoping that he’s sufficiently healed up by the time Boy Scout camp arrives, that he’s still able to go and participate in, if not all, then at least most of the activities.

And again the litany of the at leasts.

At least the doctor was able to reposition the elbow without calling in a pediatric specialist or sending us to the children’s hospital.

At least he doesn’t need surgery.

At least it was his left, not right arm.

At least it was only his arm, and he didn’t injure his head.

At least this was the week that my husband wasn’t travelling, not last or next week.

At least we’re financially comfortable enough that meeting the deductible for the year isn’t going to be a major, or even minor, crisis.  We won’t have to pay the bills by credit card and defer paying, or be short the money for school clothes in the fall, or any such thing.

But at the same time:  it was a freak thing that he was injured in the first place.  He jumped, not out of a tree, but, in his telling, off a waist-high tree stump.  This isn’t, “for the nature of the fall, he’s just lucky it wasn’t worse.”  It’s “for that minor a fall, it’s unlucky the injury was that bad.”

What it comes down to, though, is that I have a hard time with the notion of “be grateful it wasn’t worse” or “be grateful for all the ‘at leasts’ above.”

Because there are now, and have been, people in those situations.

The right-hand broken arm that required surgery (twice!)?  Well, that was me, actually, when I was in first grade — I always blamed having my right arm in a cast during those crucial formative months for why I had such bad handwriting.  My school picture that year is of me in a cast.

But the head injury?  One of the sailing camp instructors, who also happened to have lived across from us at our old house, and whose family attends our church, did indeed have a head injury, going on two years ago.  Lost her memory — to the extent that, last summer, her sister re-introduced me to her:  “this is Mrs. ____.  They lived across the street from us and later we used to babysit for them.”

So to say, “I’m grateful that he didn’t injure his head” feels wrong.  “I’m grateful he escaped C’s fate.”  If I’m expressing gratitude to God, that implies that God in some way prevented a worse injury, and yet didn’t see fit to protect C.

Or, heck, “I’m grateful my family is in good health” — when we learned today that a family friend, battling cancer (some backstory here, in what I’ll admit is a post with fairly similar content), has found out that the cancer has worsened despite the past several months of treatment.  If our family’s good health is due to God’s care, why not so for our friend?

It’s the end of the school year.  I’m relieved that my kids made it through the year with good report cards.  Both the middle and oldest improved their grades substantially, no mean feat for the oldest, with his first year of high school and with honors math and science, so this had been a big worry.  But am I grateful?  I don’t know.  Likewise, does it make sense to be grateful that we live in a safe neighborhood, in a comfortable, weatherproof house, and have no financial worries?

Do you see what I’m saying, or has it been to long a day and is it now too late at night?