Accidents Will Happen
In the 6-1/2 years that I've been a father, I've made a grand total of ONE trip to the emergency room. AMAZING...when you consider we have three rowdy, fearless little boys.
This past week, however, that number went to two.
I've been spending the week with my in-laws in Howe (the speed trap just south of Sherman on US-75), then driving back to Abilene on the weekends. To give Robin a break, I take at least on of the boys with me for the week. This also gives mee-maw and pee-paw a chance to hang out with their grandchildren on an individual basis.
Noah was with me this past week. It was about 9:30 Tuesday evening, and my 4-1/2 year old was brushing his teeth while standing on a stool. Noah likes to shake his "groove thing" while brushing his teeth...which is never a good idea while standing on an old rickety platform.
"Noah, you're going to get hurt - why don't you get down from there," I said.
Well...he got down.
I hadn't taken two steps past the bathroom door when I heard a crash followed by crying. Not the crying of a child who has fallen and thinks to himself, "Wow - that scared me - I should cry." No, this was the "Dang, that hurts...and I'm bleeding...A LOT" cry.
I walked back to the bathroom expecting to find a sleepy little boy who had a bump. Instead I found a sleepy little boy with a large gash below his eyebrow.
Now Robin and I have an agreement. It's not documented anywhere - it doesn't have to be! The agreement is simple - I handle the vomit; she takes care of blood!
But there was no Robin!
So Daddy had to act. I quickly scooped up my 50-lb son and pressed paper towels against his head. Meanwhile, I'm wiping puddles of blood from his face. Curious to see how my first aid is working, I pull the towels away from little Noah's head, and I felt like I was in a "Rocky" movie.
"Cut me, Mick," went through my head.
SO I grabbed my keys, slipped on my shoes and walked my nearly-naked son out to the car. Off we went to Sherman's Wilson N Jones Hospital. Ironically, the last time I had been there was when Noah was born.
We were triaged (is that a word?) at 10p.m....but it was a busy night in the ER. A shooting, a stabbing, a bad car accident, and lots of other more serious maladies kept Noah and I from being tended to until 2:30a.m.
The good thing about this was that Noah had fallen fast asleep...and all the blood, swearing, and crying hadn't phased him a bit (I, on the other hand, was completely traumatized - my nerves were shot!).
The doctor finally gets to the room toting a large leather straight-jacket. And he and the two nurses plan to get Noah wrapped up like a hot dog without waking him.
Well...they ALMOST made it!
About the time the last velcro strip is being fastened young Noah begins to stir. And as the doctor is approaching Noah with the lidocaine-filled needle his eyes open.
To say that he flew into a panic would be like saying Methuselah was middle aged!
Like vultures on an antelope's carcass, the nurses pounced my writhing son. "Talk to him, Dad - calm him down," one of them ordered.
GEE - WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?!?!?!? Uh, Noah, I realize that you have a big needle plunging into your eyebrow and your arms are securely fastened by your side to keep you from moving...but could you relax a bit?
All I could do was hum the theme from "Star Wars" and tell him how good he was doing. I feel confident that all of Grayson County and most of Collin County heard Noah's pleas for help.
Three stitches later it was over. I scooped my scared little boy and held him close. We walked back to the car ($125 lighter!) and before I could pull out of the parking lot he was asleep.
So I pulled the car over, kissed his little head, opened my car door, and threw up!
Where was Robin?!?!?