Emergency, Emergency

Earlier this week, I wrote about David's quest to find the perfect bed at my sister's house. He thought that he had found it, but within 24 hours it was only a distant memory. My nephew, Thomas' bed, had quickly been replaced in David's catalog of supremely comfy beds.

In retrospect, it would have been better if David had just stayed in Thomas' bed that night. In fact, I think that Michael and I did try to tiptoe out of the house because it is sometimes extremely difficult to get David to fall asleep. It would have been a luxury to skip the nighttime routine, but clever Annie noticed the 55 pound five-year-old lump in the bed and sent David packing.

I say it would have been better if David had stayed because shortly after I brought him home from school the next day, I heard him outside screaming. His language has developed very slowly, but he is now able to tell me "I churt" and where it hurts, which is a great relief. But, on this occasion, he had "churt" himself so badly that all language was gone and by the time I got to him, he was a bloody mess. At first I could not tell where it was coming from because he had blood all over his hands and feet.

Let's backtrack for a minute and say that there are a few reasons why I chose English Literature as my major and did not enter the medical profession, not the least of which is BLOOD. I cannot handle blood. The sight of blood alternately makes me want to faint or vomit. Or vomit and then faint. You read stories about mothers and the rush of adrenaline that allows them to perform herculean feats to save their children—like lifting a car, for example. Well, my rush of adrenaline did allow me to carry David into the house avoiding all carpeted areas, clean him up enough to see that the blood was coming from his foot, bandage him, get him to the car and make the appropriate phone calls, all without screaming…or fainting…or vomiting, although I may have had a stab at hyperventilating, I am not sure.

David was a real trooper. By the time we got to the car, he had stopped crying and my husband, who had just come home from work, wondered what all the fuss was about. We arrived at the hospital and were greeted at the door by a nurse with a wheelchair. I quickly realized by the size that the chair was not for me, although I could have used it. David was hesitant, but then when he saw the hospital bed, he was in love. Of course, if you think about it, what boy (or grown man) wouldn't be? Built-in remote control and call button, head, foot and height adjustment and David's favorite feature—the side rails.

The diagnosis—David had cut his foot on a piece of glass. We don't routinely keep glass on our deck—think dinner party, umbrella lights, windy day and umbrella comes down, add one barefoot boy and you have the recipe for a cut close to the artery, which explains all the blood. The treatment—three stitches for David and a large glass of wine for me (or maybe two if I am being completely honest). The prognosis—good.