💪Lose the Arm
Parenting Stress Test
What was everyone’s reaction to Daredevil’s return to Disney+? We’ll have more of hornhead here, of course. Episodes of Storymaze feature: writing tips or a work-in-progress; something creative I’m digging; + a quote that’s got me thinking.
We’re gathering steam and sulfur on Axles Infernal #2, which is in pre-launch on Kickstarter. Come check out the trailer and sign up for our launch — we’d love to have you join us in continuing to bring this supernatural road trip to life.
Issue #1 had a great response from backers and comic pros:
“Really dug the first issue! Feels like the reader's along for a "ride" just like Percy. No stopping to think too much about anything. Karl's art is beautiful. The shifting angles really heighten the tension, and there's a nice grunginess to all the characters. I dig the SFX surrounding the truck. And the design of the cab! Claw hand shifter is awesome. It really moves at a fast, anxious pace.” — Dean Kotz, Krampus
You know that feeling when your kid’s arm is immobilized with a mysterious malady? And the head of the hospital’s infectious disease unit is telling you, “We really don’t know what’s happening or when he’ll be coming home…”? And the not-so-subtle subtext is saying, “He may not…”? Yeah that feeling. Well I hope you never do.
(I’ll be brutally honest and say there are people in our current world I would wish that feeling on. But not you, dear readers. Not you.)
Let’s cut to the chase: L is still around and kicking — although that outcome was far from certain during those dire weeks when he was 12. If we ever mentioned him online then, it was always the single letter, a naive attempt to better protect his identity in the time of a more hopeful internet.
Now that he’s a young adult and doxxing software comes free with every social media outrage, it’s not really much of a shield. But I’ll keep it going, because helicopter parenting goes down hard.
The road to that soul-sucking convo with Dr. Infectious was a handful of escalating days that all seemed manageable — until it all wasn’t. L had blocked a punch in a Krav Maga class and felt a slight tweak in his elbow. He paid it no mind — he’d always had a pretty high tolerance for pain, and not one to complain. So when he woke me and his mom up in the middle of the night because his arm hurt — something wasn’t right.
We didn’t appreciate the “highly recommended” ortho specialists as they had a laugh when L described that block at the gym. “So you got hit by a girl?” they chortled. Gleeful chauvinism aside, their diagnosis of a “hairline fracture” that didn’t even show on the X-Ray seemed…reasonable. It’d heal up on its own, check back in a few weeks, light a candle to our medical miracle worker status on your way out.
Except…it got worse. Or at least initially weirder. By Friday his arm was noticeably red, he was having trouble extending it all the way — and momma J thought it best to forego traveling with me to a wedding in PA. I’d go on ahead and she’d take him in to have it checked out.
While I hit the road to represent, J ran up against a plodding medical system that kept insisting L straighten his arm to get it into a scanner — when there was no way he could extend it. In frustration she turned to L’s trusted pediatrician for advice. That doctor took one look at his blood work and hit the panic button. That cleared the way at the hospital and put the staff on infected red alert. It’s no exaggeration to say her quick action saved his life.
In between the wedding vows my phone began lighting up with multiple, worrisome notifications: “Call from J.” The sec the minister announced “You may kiss the…” I was checking messages. Far from the, “All good, got some antibiotics, hope you’re having a good time…” I was expecting.
L’s white blood cells were off the charts. A massive infection was raging through his arm and required immediate surgery to clear it out. I was shocked into action, grabbing my goods from the nearby bed-and-breakfast that J and I were supposed to have been at, trading in that overnight for a damn-the-torpedoes, race-the-engine high-speed return to CT.
The infection/fever was making L loopy. He was seeing dinosaurs and pigs — which under any other circumstance sounded like a delightful exercise of imagination. As parents we didn’t need any fever to make us loopy — we were right there, fueled up on stress and anxiety. The relative calm of the surgeon was a relief: this would be a straightforward procedure — 2 hours tops.
Except…”worse” had gotten a taste and wanted more. 2 hours stretched to 4, then 6. The infection — whatever it was — was far more invasive than the specialists had anticipated. What was eating L’s arm — and had Dr. Infectious so concerned and unable to commit — was strep bacteria. When L took that hit in gym class, his elbow extended backward just enough to create a teensy lil’ opening for strep that was already in his bloodstream.
Floating along that warm red, that bacteria hadn’t worked up a sore throat like you’d expect of its kind. You see, this was strep with ambitions. Once it crept into that elbow space — that dark, moist, organic cauldron — it set to multiplying like crazy, to then explode outward. Bonus bacteria fact: this particular type of strep was a sloppy kissin’ cousin to necrotizing fasciitis — the flesh-eating disease. That arm was just the appetizer: it had this whole 12 year old lined up as its all-you-can-eat buffet.
Another operation quickly followed, to try and clean out the infection faster than it was growing. Another many hours later it wasn’t even worth closing up the wound: they left it open with an elaborate pump system continuously sucking out the pus and fluids. SLURP-KLIK-HISSS was the nightmare lullaby that provided no rest for any of us. (One of us was always there with L throughout, and often both of us.)
One extra special WTF health-system-with its-head-up-its-ass moment was when Child Services stopped in to accuse us of malnourishing our child. “The report we have says he’s anemic.” “They’re taking blood from him every hour, of course he’s anemic!” my wife fired back — sending the judgy bureaucrat scurrying back to its Shelob-style hidey-hole before J stabby-stabbed with her Sting-like knitting needles.
And then, just like that — his arm was clear. It was also frozen in the crook at his elbow, muscle atrophy and more over the last two weeks “locking” his forearm across his chest. They stitched up L’s by-then elaborate wound, which now ran from below his elbow up to his shoulder. (As caring parents, we’ve advocated the Joker approach to explaining his injury. “Wanna know how I got these scars?”)
Out of the hospital was far from out of the woods. Despite a special delivery of bourbon and twisty straws from dear friends looking to provide some relief — for mom and dad, not the kid — there was still much to contend with.
1) Another hospital visit to put L under to wrench his arm open, “breaking” the buildup that was constraining movement. 2) A Steampunk-styled arm brace that had to be attached at night and cranked open to stretch muscles and tendons. 3) Hours upon hours of scream-inducing PT that he and his mom soldiered through to ultimately get him back to just 3 degrees off being able to extend his arm fully.
“A lot of parents would have given up sooner,” said the physical therapist. Not for this kid. Not for what he’d been through. We’d never coddled L but I will admit to being over protective. The world becomes an even harsher place when it’s coming for your child, and I wanted this boy — this sweet, sparky, joyful little boy — to enjoy that bubble for as long as he could. But that was many months long gone. How much childhood had this whole hellish experience taken from him?
I was worried when I saw the orange sheet sticking out of his school backpack. It was covered in harsh black scribbles, and jagged writing: “An infection got into my arm and they had to cut it out.” Was this some kind of proto-goth poetry self-therapy? A middle school primal scream?
When I asked, L rolled his eyes — and explained with great weariness. “Everybody’s always asking about the scar. I got sick of answering. So now I just hold up the sheet as soon as they start talking.”
We were never going to be able to preserve childhood forever. What parent can? But he was going to be just fine. Sparky, indeed.
Under pressure of studies and a disintegrating home life, a young Korean woman is tempted to murder by the tantalizing promise of the taste of human eyes. Blue orbs especially. “The Eyes Are the Best Part” is a breezy, snarky, spiraling study in madness and revenge and what it’s like to balance hopes, dreams and a weakness for serial killing. And just look at that cover!
James Enstall is the terrific host of Geek to Me Radio. He’s had me on as a guest a few times, and I’ve been grateful for the attention and conversation. As we were rolling out the Kickstarter campaign for Axles Infernal #1, James was agreeable to opening up his show to me and Karl to help promote the crowdfunding.
Give it a watch — and please consider signing up to be notified when issue #2 is ready to launch!
“When stumped by a life choice, choose ‘enlargement’ over happiness.”
— Oliver Burkeman
My first con of the year is GalaxyCon in Richmond, VA: 3/27-3/30. If you can make it, too and you’re first to come see me with a copy of any Daredevil: Black Armor issue or trade — that autograph is free. Show up in a Black Armor cosplay: get a full set of the original Fall From Grace comics!
Amazing Times
If D.G. Chichester looks pretentious, feel free to just call me “Dan”, and have a go at the last name as Chai (like the tea) Chester (like it looks). I’ve written comic books like Daredevil, Terror Inc., Nick Fury Agent of SHIELD and Clive Barker’s Hellraiser, along with all manner of digital widgets in the world wide web of marketing. I like weird tales, so if things here bend that way — now you know why!
Folks seem to like the comic book adventures I’ve written, so if you haven’t checked one out — please do. Many are now available in fab collected editions.
For between newsletters…
Kickstarter looks great, Dan!